Tuesday, February 11

The squirrel draws a delicate wavy line across the lawn with its body and luxurious tail as it heads towards the bird feeder. The rain is soaking everything. Downstairs the hoover screams.

Monday, February 10

bubbles and pain and grief rise up, triggered by something that is nothing. i sit on the stairs and wait for them to pass.

Sunday, February 9


she sprays at the ice on her windscreen as if making a piece of art

Saturday, February 8


she tells us again the story of when she met her husband, the story of when the naughty teenagers ran through her garden, the story of the bats, the story of when he was called up during the war. most of the objects in her house are older than me.

Friday, February 7

sometimes all children (even the quiet ones) are too noisy

Thursday, February 6

my empty stomach speaks to me in a low voice. the radio sings and soothes.

Wednesday, February 5

yesterday's shy daff buds are all burst yellow frills

Tuesday, February 4

translucent heart, light streaming through, a pink butterfly cyclamen just alighted

Monday, February 3

we are held up for an hour as the Albion football fans file out. there are rows of indian sweet shops and exquisite glittering saris and suits for princes. all these people and their lives.

Sunday, February 2

this morning's gift

two leaves on the front doormat - stalks looking suspiciously like tails

Saturday, February 1

this morning
my bed
is surrounded
in a sticky