Friday 7th May

Day 18

In the night the daisies in the lawn mushroomed into a speckled rash; dense under the apple tree umbrella, filtering between the few bluebells, circling the dandelions. In a race to grow taller than the longest blades of grass. I’m glad it’s too wet to mow the lawn; let the white riot continue till the sunshine returns. Today the fairy fists of apple blossom blend into a pale rain washed sky.

It’s cold in the kitchen even though the boiler is humming in the corner. A burning lemongrass candle on the table next to my computer makes it feel warmer. Left over lunch on the hob - a skillet of gingery quinoa pilaf still bright with bits of red pepper, discs of leek, slivers of mushroom, coins of carrot, silk strands of spinach. On the counter - a small bowl of pan roasted cashew nuts - too easy to filch on my way to the kettle.

I’ve always loved Friday evenings. Working or not, plans or no plans. An end and a beginning all rolled into a present. Like a sunrise and a sunset can be the same blazing orange streaking a bruised sky. I don’t think it’s too early for a glass of red wine.