25th April 2012 Wednesday
I have been stalked by a headache all afternoon - relentless as the rain pounding on the plastic roof of our utility room - sharp and heavy as hail stones. The lawn is a grass lake. The pussy cat picks his way across it like a ballerina on tip toes, shaking water from his paws as he goes. The crimson crinkled-edged tulips have abandoned their dignity and flop over the rims of their pots like drunken rag dolls.
We risk the weather and walk through rows of pine trees, new lime green growth speckling the tips of their branches. We wade through rusty brown puddles and skid on claggy mud, clutching the hoods of our jackets against the wind. My husband says he’s feeling positive about the future even though he doesn’t know what he can do. I’m practising my new rule of not making helpful suggestions. The rain starts again just before we reach the car so we run the last bit and then head for Sainsbury’s with the de-mister turned up full blast on the windscreen.
I’ve been collecting the first asparagus spears from the allotment - keeping them in the fridge till there are enough for lunch. My husband has been cutting them in twos and threes as they poke up from the soil, tall and straight - like a family of curious meercats. I decide eleven stalks will make a lunch and we feast on them with a salad of peppery green leaves, and sweet tender prawns - the rain making its own raw music on the windows. And drilling into my head.
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