mud and motherhood

It is definitely spring. There are still banks of snowdrops and now the hedges are full of yellow catkins and there are primroses and budding daffodils in the banks.

It is definitely spring. There are still banks of snowstorms and now the hedges are full of yellow catkins and there are promoters and budding daffodils in the banks.

Whoever designed the predictive typing on this device does not have the soul of a poet. A surrealist, perhaps, but not a lyrical poet. Unless there is a “rural idyll” mode that I have failed to activate.

So there is new life everywhere, including the carport, where some kind of alien life form has taken root. Fred the cockerel is strutting his stuff. He is immensely protect to be of his girls, to the extent of flying at the back of your legs if you pick one of them up. It can be quite disconcerting: he comes in claw first and flapping, right in the back of your knee.

The first few sorrel leaves are showing in the herb patch, and I feel like I live in a lifestyle feature article in the brief moments between downpours. Disregarding the mud, of course, and spending 10 mins on my hands and knees pulling God knows what horror out of the kitchen drain. Does Kristen Scott Thomas unblock drains? Just wondering.

I am alone in the house and am doing nothing. I am drinking tea from a vintage cup and saucer and eating (very expensive, very messy) patisserie. I should be wearing something taupe and elegant by Toast, but I am not thin enough, or rich enough, or self indulgent enough.

I haven’t got long before I transport Rainbow from riding lesson to friend’s house, so I have to make the most of it. In fairness, I don’t do this very often.

I had to go to Exeter this morning for training. There’s 4 hours of my life I won’t get back again, but I did score 100%on my Information Governance, so that’s some consolation. And I sneaked to the shops…

What I wonder is: was this inevitable? How did I get from being relentlessly urban demi-goth student to muddy middle class mother? With chickens? Were there moments when I could have changed direction? And if there were, did I notice them at the time?

It’s hailing. And my baby is out there on a pony.


About sarahsouthwest

I'm now in my early 50s. I started writing again as a way of exploring the world, and feel that over the last 2 years I have really grown as a writer. By day I work with children and young people with mental health difficulties. I juggle my own two children, my work, my writing practice, generally managing to keep all the balls up in the air.
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