The fridge is full, jam-packed to bursting, from the bottom two salad drawers to the top shelf, with tomatoes, and there are more puzzling things I can’t even describe. For the first few seconds I’m not sure if I’m sleeping, recalling fragments of dreams or even where I actually am. This has happened a lot in the last few lockdown weeks.
The fridge in question is the small old one which works. It is totally lacking in tomatoes.
It seems like the edges of sleep, dreams and being awake have blurred a little. I’m not getting any assistance from the fancy watch I was bought for my birthday – my laziness really. I’ve mastered the basics of how many steps a day and how my heart-rate fluctuates, but the sleep analysis part leaves me cold, confused, with cramp in my left foot and half the duvet missing. The fancy watch, in broad terms, seems to be all about circles, completing them and then colouring them in; it beeps happily when either of these is achieved.
Apparently, my differing sleep patterns have been noticed also by the husband; I am regularly found face down planted in the bed. And this has never happened before.
Astronomically speaking, the week thus far has been an unmitigated disaster. Despite two attempts of wrapping up warm and gazing attentively and patiently up at the night sky, the results have been failure. Nothing at all. We were hoping to spot either Lyrid meteor showers or satellite trains launched by a megalomaniac billionaire. Nothing, except a spectacularly bright Venus and close observation of space-sharing cat politics – Miss Baxter and Oliver.
But in the afternoon, there was good conversation with old friends, a slowworm discovery on our walk, and an amusingly slow amble with the donkeys, gathering mouthfuls of herb Robert, of dandelions and of willow on their unhurried stableward way.
The poem below is from a very slightly more successful stargazing night – it’s in ‘Cardiff Bay Lunch’.