Saturday 1st May

Day 12

Today is the day to slip under the wire of routine. To be cherished with a pot of Earl Grey tea in bed. To let the croissant flakes scatter on the sheets. To lick fingers sticky with apricot jam. To let morning drift into afternoon as sunlight behind bamboo blinds disappears and rain prickles the windows. We face each other propped up by pillows talking, laughing, re-connecting with no appointments calling us away.

When our talk turns sombre he escapes to the allotment with two trays of tomatillo seedings with tender leaves and straggling stems, longing for a transplant into deeper soil. I linger on in the bonus of bed in the afternoon, the pussy cat languorous on my stretched out legs. I write, searching for fertile ground.

Much later we drive towards the sea past the exuberant froth of pink and white cherry blossom and bright fans of dense gorse, luminous against a charcoal washed sky. Taking a diversion we park outside a country church and follow a muddy footpath lined with nettles and cuckoo pint, cow parsley and bluebells. The rain stays away and the sun is more like the moon behind silvery clouds.

On the way home I think about supper and the pillow comfort of mashed potatoes which will cut the smoky oiliness of the salmon fillets waiting for us in our new fridge.