The object of today's wonderings is not an object. She is a baby of seven pounds and fifteen ounces: by the time of writing this, about five hours in age.
While I am wondering I am wandering: around the lanes, before breakfast, where I see the harvest has begun in one wheat field, but not finished, the rain has seen to that. Green berries are gaining blush and size. Dog follows badger scent sagas. Some bits grip so deep her tail freezes.
In the afternoon my car is delegated transport for children to reach the beach. Boy loads the surfboards, hmms at clouds. Dog is relegated to the boot space, next to the bodyboard, to make room for Boy and friends.
At Widemouth South the shallows are warm and lively with the foam of little waves. Between the lifeguards' flags the sea teems with impossible numbers. A fan of empty sand, I find this blast of close quarters humanity endearingly cheery. If Dog and I play over by the rocks, it is only so I can throw her ball without clouting a bodyboarder.
We watch the pocket of filled surf from the cliffs, where the gulls sit easy on the edge of sheer drop.
My car takes up an ominous clang, but gets us home, then gets us to work and back. There's a pile of wet beach paraphernalia in the bathroom and a stack of washing up in the kitchen. In the front room is all the stuff we had to drag out of my car to get the beach kit in. All of it destined for tomorrow's To Do list. Jobs need doing, just as sometimes they need ignoring, because sometimes the sun shines, because a baby should be born on a happy day.