Thankyou for your lovely messages regarding the birth of my niece, (I like saying that, it’s a grand thing, being an auntie).
You know, working from home is a splendid thing, on the whole. However, it can have its drawbacks. Not many drawbacks, to be honest. But possibly the main one is that it’s easy to just keep working, and forget that I am both mistress and architect of my day, and its rhythms therein. Particularly when it comes to play time.
I’m told this is a Protestant thing, even though I am decidedly heathen, since birth. The ancestral presbyterianism prevails, it would seem.
And working from home, it’s too easy to just work on through, and forget to give oneself the necessary breaks. I do make sure I get a good, long morning constitutional. Not only because it helps me think, and re-wilds my soul, but also to prevent the possibility of my transforming into a complete pudding. Because we did evolve to move, non?
But whilst the kettle is boiled on a regular basis, I don’t necessarily stop for tea. And lunch lately, has been consumed at my desk. I know, I know.
This morning however, I felt restless. On a whim, (oh, for I am wild and spontaneous *snort*), I propose to the Bloke, a mad jaunt up the mountain for the purposes of a change of scenery; and a cuppa in an actual cafe. A cafe which, on a Monday morning, we may even get a table, because the tourists are not quite so in abundance as they are on the weekends.
So off we pootle, the dorje-dog sitting up ever so straight and eager in the back of the car, with her nose wedged in the slit of the open window; tongue lolling in doggy ecstasy at the cacophony of scents without. The dorje adores riding in the car with her pack. It’s almost as good as dinner. Or a walk. Or a bone. Or cuddles. Or…you get the picture. Canine enthusiasm is awe-inspiring. And humbling.
Following my (mercifully) rare double espresso mocha, (I don’t even drink coffee, so spare a thought as to the boggling effects of a double shot mocha); we have a brief potter about in the chilly morning air. Up there, at the top of this ‘ere mountain, Autumn has already declared itself, with the song of cicadas, and with the nip of goosebumps on my shoulders. It’s deliciously sensual, and most welcome.
We wander into one of those shops that exclusively sells body lotions and candles, and I launch myself with caffeinated glee at an entire wall of body butters. After narrowing the options to either fig and vanilla or gardenia, I plump for the latter, and the Bloke treats me to a tub of moste excellente slather. Which is perfect for these late Summer days. Days which find me bathing not by candlelight, but by dusty sunbeams; their old-gold slanting in through the window of my west-facing bathroom.
We stroll past buildings of bluestone and sandstone, and a yarn shop. I think about how I’d like to knit my new niece a cardigan, perhaps using Malabrigo Rios in ‘English Rose’; for she is a gorgeous little thing. Part Italian, and born with a thatch of silky, dark hair.
Across the way is a purveyor of spells and crystals, but I can’t go in there, because every time I do I emerge dizzy, ungrounded, and nauseous; (the Moon feels the same way – what are they conjuring in there??) There is also a seller of provender – roquefort, pomegranate cordial, and rosewater nougat.
I breathe it all in, I feel filled up. I pluck a bunch of fresh ideas, snippets, and remembrances of light. For this is a town dotted with giant oaks, and overflowing with little ghosts of history, and glimpses of old world beauty.
But I’m happy to return, further down the mountain to my raggedy cosmos flowers, and my pillaged beans; with the Bloke, and the dorje dog. To be greeted by a pile of disgruntled cats, glowering at me from cushions on the careworn armchair, that sits on the verandah, looking out at the southern sky.