Achoo — it's party time!
A short autumnal poem preluded by flu-fuelled meanderings. Plus: a small bear for a small boy.
Head: cold stuffed. Scissors: aloft. Faces: laminated.
When I dared to look back on several weeks in the plague-ridden Titcomb household, implying it was all in the past and everything was going to be Just Fine, the fates scoffed and the viruses converged.
So, we’re ill again. Again? We simply continue. We’re diligently disgusting. We’re persevering in being putrid. I’ve been forced to sit still for a couple of days while Arthur’s in nursery, which is uncomfortable; I find it so hard not to see restful, baby-free hours as ‘wasted’ when there are so many jobs to do, words to write, things to clean and sort. And on top of that, parties to plan.
Because — if you can believe it — Arthur’s turning one (!) next week, and we’re throwing a little birthday party on Saturday for which I have, of course, ambitious plans. I was made for this: for the wobbly sponges, dripping icing, chaotic bunting, glue-sticky fingers, and sweatpants covered in pompom fluff. My obsession with arts and crafts, my DIY wedding — it’s all been training for the years of kids’ birthdays stretching ahead.
Luckily, I find drawing and snipping and sticking and sewing very restful. And so, earlier today (between checking my emails — self-employed work never quite stops, even when you’re poorly) you’d have found me huddled by my box of tissues while tying tassels on a hand-knitted teddy bear’s scarf; arranging hats on laminated cake toppers; and searching for loose threads on the homemade backpack. Then, snuggling down under a blanket with a hot tea to recover from, as I described it to Alex, ‘too much looking down.’
Anyway. Crafts and illnesses aside, here’s a very short poem I was mulling over while out walking the dog a couple of days ago that reminds me I ought to go and get some fresh air. Enjoy, and may yours be a delicious, germ-free autumn. 🍁
Tasting notes
It’s biting fresh on the nose, with notes
of warming spice, bitter-edged sweetness.
The tongue? Hot stung — too eager
for bubbling, slow-simmered comfort.
At the back of the throat: wood smoke
unfurling, curling into the early dark.
Left behind is a heart skip of knowing,
fiercely chased by blooming candlelight.