Pomegranate freckles, a rather ugly duckling and a very big birthday
June has finally arrived, a little later than perhaps anticipated. The sun is shining in the garden and I’m writing this memo with glistening knee caps, sat outside next to the newly filled pond whilst Damson the duckling sploshes in and out. It all sounds quite idyllic doesn’t it? Someone recently told me that reading these memos felt like a tonic for her, I was quite overwhelmed by this and flattered that I have another reader alongside my dear old Ma. Another person {not my Ma} told me they are quite fake, that my life isn’t really like that, that I’m portraying something that is not real.
I’ve chosen to take the positive words and let them stay with me longer than the rather less considerate ones.
The truth is, everyone has ups and downs in life. I’m often in a frump, feeling low, stressing about money or the lack there of. Life on paper is far from perfect. Other people would refer to my kitchen as ‘a pit’, I can’t yet afford to lay a floor downstairs and my emotional waves come and go more often than those at Watergate. I’m not trying to present perfection. Apologies if that’s the way it comes across. But, that said, I’ve got more than just pounds to my name. I’ve got a safe, happy home with healthy little children and so forgive me for enjoying and celebrating those riches as a distraction from all the doom and gloom.
Anyway, a few unkind words won’t stop me, sadly for that person, so…on I go. I’ve ordered the paint for ‘the pit’, another Edward Bulmer, a stronger percentage of Milk White than the children’s room for a warmer edge in the winter and a sort of Italian gelato cool for the sun filled months.
Damson the duckling is doing well. Atlas calls her DD now…Damson Duckling as her ‘second name’. She has begun removing her baby fluff which is a shame as she’s not quite so cosy to cuddle anymore and looks a little shabby ~ much like the rest of us I suppose. Her big girl feathers are beginning to come through and she awaits the childrens return from school as soon as they don their creaky leather shoes and leave each morning. When they do arrive home and have torn off their uniforms, we put her out in the garden and she whizzes through their legs, desperate to join in their games or sit alongside them quietly as they paint and draw. I say ‘she’, at this point, we’re not sure whether Damson is a drake or a hen but ‘she’ will show us in her own good time.
It’s so wonderfully warm that I ironed the uniforms in my knickers last night and as a result now have a linear bubble of deep purple, now yellowing blistered skin at the top of my left thigh. Dull as ironing is, I get terribly distracted and as Inca snuck out of her bed and attempted to slip into mine for the ninety-fifth time, I didn’t notice the iron resting gently and a little too longingly against my bare skin. A small price to pay to be able to do the laundry in knickers I think.
We cannot get enough of pomegranate at the moment, we enjoy it sprinkled on our morning meusli or weetabix. There’s something really lovely about pomegranate freckles on the chin of young children, as they chomp down on them and the ruby red explosions of pure joy settle on their skin. The chickens adore them too, they gobble any strays from the washing up bowl as I throw the water from the caravan door each morning.
It is the last day of our current school for our two before we start a new adventure at their new school next week. We’ve decided to skip off tomorrow and drive back home to celebrate my Pa’s seventieth birthday. I can’t wait to swim early in the morning, eat outside all together, laugh with my sister, cut cake and celebrate Grandpa being legendary.