Month: July 2016

Sweet peas 2016 | edge of evening

Postcard from now: summer holiday edition

It’s early. The roofbox is on the car. The little ones are still sleeping. Somehow we’ve careened to the end of another school year & the summer is stretched out before us. The endless weeks of rain turned to three days of intense heat and endless sun. Now, the sky is spread with quilted white clouds, the air is deliciously cool on my bare arms. When we got our tent, we imagined spontaneous weekends of camping. But here, in the middle of our lives, nothing is as spontaneous as it seems. The roofbox lives in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the tent right at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, the stove and sleeping bags and mats come out of the eaves storage. We’re working with it: two camping trips a fortnight apart. This morning we leave for Dorset & then, later in the summer, back to France. I’ve tried to be realistic with my book packing. I’m bringing just three. (Plus the knowledge that it would be easy enough …

Confession | edge of evening


The thing about blogging is that it’s not at all hard to think of things to write about. It’s just a matter of noticing. Going through your days paying attention to the things that give you pause, the things you read that articulate some thought that you hadn’t yet quite formulated, the books you read that you want to press into someone else’s hands immediately. But, as in a fairy story, these bright bits and pieces you collect will turn to dust if you try to save them. (The same with Instagram. It’s just a habit of being aware. Noticing the small things like the way the light falls in certain places only at certain times of the year. Spending the treasure of what you see, not hoarding it for a rainy day.) What is hard though, is writing about a book, even one you’ve loved, weeks or months after you’ve read it. And this is my confession: there have been good books & I haven’t told you about them. This blog hardly has a …

Wildeve | edge of evening

Postcard from now

This is from Friday, when all I had for you were disconnected thoughts. I think, maybe, things are improving. Or at least, the sun is shining. Holding on, holding on. One of the first signs, always, avoiding myself. I stop getting up to write. Days go blank. This morning, on the way to pre-school, I remember the boys of my childhood. Craig Harwood. Ian Stanton. Ben Luker. Paul Catchpole. Robert Thompson. Richard Colvin, Old Colv. Richard Roberts, Boo. Some of these boys I haven’t seen since I was eleven. Some continued to be in my classes at secondary school. Boys who were always there in the background. Names & associations that might be with me forever. A pattern to the weeks. The weekend’s momentum carrying me through Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday, a pause. The first pre-school day. Reading, not writing. Thursday, a headache. Friday, pre-school again, but too late for anything but tears. Thinking of the boys reminds me of Jo Ann Beard’s The Boys of My Youth. I came to it through her wondrous, …