Sunday, 7 October 2012

Hullabuloo

You can really launch yourself into an egg, Granma. You really can.


Luckily, 4am was a false start. Tucked back in, Baby remembered sleep for a few hours more. Figures of mist drift in the field, later, after toast and egg. Dog gallops through them. I watch Baby in her Wellington boots fall over the tractor tracks. Mud print hands held up: ‘Oh no!’ Her sing-song steps and words, over the embossed earth, under the faint sky. Back to the road, to pretty stomps in puddles. Back to the coffee pot: Granma is flagging. Boots discarded, just a little way before reaching dry land, she takes on tasks: wearing sideways flip-flops, dipping a cup into Dog’s delicious looking water; oh, it has hair floating in it, fascinating, heh, heh, if I turn my back on Granma she’ll never know I am dipping my cup in here for a swig; and what are these books doing, cluttering up the shelves? Wry smiling Granma hugs the hot espresso. 

Dog, if they ask, you ain't seen me.

2 comments:

  1. This is deliciously mundane.

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  2. You have a way of making even watching the baby poetic. She definitely looks like a girl who could give a Gran a good run.

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