Flooding

Wednesday 15th December

Day 238

It’s soothing to wash red mud off the leek under icy running water; to scrub the skin of a stubby allotment carrot; to slice through springy leaves of neroli cabbage.To prepare our meal like I have done a thousand times before. I know what will happen when I pour a puddle of olive oil into a skillet, turn the heat up, and scrape the chopped vegetables off the board with the edge of my long knife and into the pan. I’m certain the pale leek will change into a bright lime green in the steam and then will catch and burn if I don’t lower the fire. I’ll add a jugful of boiling stock and the sweet earthy aroma of supper will fill the kitchen. I can count on it.

Tonight it’s good to keep my hands busy, to remember my friend’s voice on the phone, to turn up the volume on Handel’s Messiah, to douse the noise in my head. Nothing was ever guaranteed anyway. It’s just that I wanted it to be. Like I know sugar is sweet.

The second glass of wine uncorks me. My husband doesn’t seem to mind his jumper being a sponge. But I lose my appetite in the flood.