Bubbles, float over a wall into the Grove. You can't see where they come from, but they drift in the wind, at first in a crowd (what is the collective noun for bubbles?) then separate I watch a bubble, a hint of colour, the sheen of oil in water, on its skin, as it floats against the sun. It's still there, something perfect that will not last. Now its gone. Well. what is the collective noun for bubbles?
Bad weather is promised for today, but when I awake the sun is showing through the slats of the blinds, profiling the window frames. They throw stripe-shadows on the white wall. The whole world is out there, birds, animals, trees, roads, people, tranquility, horror. I can't wait to see what's happening.
After a heavy shower, Calverley Park has been washed clean of people. But judging by the birds, starlings, blackbirds in particular, spreading over and pecking at the grass, the rain has provided a buffet of worms.
THURSDAY, 14 JUNE 2007
rescue, jingle, lavender
In the Oxfam bookshop the other day, I spotted a book, which I read a couple of years ago, and of which I have long cherished my own copy. But I wanted to buy this one nevertheless, to pay homage to it, to rescue it. My hand hovered over it. I pulled it out, and reluctantly returned it to the shelf, a needless extravagance. Bouvard et Pecuchet, is Flaubert's last novel and was not widely appreciated when it was published after his death. It has since been undeservedly neglected. It was clearly ahead of its time. It was only when I got home that I thought of a friend who might like it. The next day I rescued it, indeed; and it is with pleasure that I can say, today, that it is on its way to a new and deserving owner.
In the Grove, I pass a woman with a bag over her shoulder. What is in it? As she walks, she jingles. I hear her fading into the distance like the tinkle of Alpine cowbells.
Two adjacent beds of lavender in Calverley Park. White lavender is mixed in with the blue. As I walk past, I move through waves of scent on this heavy, balmy afternoon.