A bird in the hand
...needs a wheat-bag and a shoebox
I stood under this tree for an oddly long time on Monday, simply to be snowed on by petals. It was lovely and felt sort of whispery. I only stopped because it must have looked fruity to passers-by.
It doesn’t take much wind to loosen cherry blossom, but sparrows were to blame in this tree, knocking about in the branches and dislodging the flowers. I expect these beautiful drifts have browned and dissolved by now as there was a cruel hailstorm on Tuesday morning. Even so, Karori is spoiled for cherries and there are splashy white stars bursting all over the hillsides, contrasting with the wet green of native bush.
If something so delicate can handle late-season frost and the brutality of a polar blast, so can I. Still, I wish Wellington would relax into spring. I want a bit of crumble back in the soil, and for bricks to be warm when I sit on them, and rain to steam gently off a footpath.
Sort that out for me, would you, God?
I guess God’s got a lot on His plate, because it was barely four degrees when I put out the bin bags this morning. I had to pour a jug of salted water on my frosty windscreen (where did I get this odd little piece of wisdom from? My English childhood - didn’t they used to salt the roads on snow days? Or was that only grit? I wish I could hold onto memories better.
Anyway, adding salt to the water seems to work and it fascinates my children).
I’ve lit the fire these past couple of nights, too - mainly to be cosy. It was slow to take last night and annoyingly, I had to lean in and blow on the flickers. This left my zip-up fleece stinking of smoke and my fingernails black with grime. There’s nothing romantic about this; as the kids might say, it’s giving Dickens.
Open fireplaces are useless, really - so much heat gets lost up the chimney and downdrafts can be awful on windy nights. Also, it’s a weird portal to the wilds outside, because a chimney is meant to be out of your reach, and things often happen up there that you can’t control. It’s a bit like the crawlspace under your house or perhaps the attic, which is always inadequately lit, with spooky corners and an atmosphere of threat. These are the spaces where human control gives way to pests, insects, hives or nests, and creatures of the night.
One evening about a year ago we were all sitting in the lounge when a tiny bird blew into the chimney and dropped two storeys into the hearth. The tiny thing battered itself repeatedly against our fireguard, desperate to escape, so I jumped up to free it. But the cat got there first - streaking across the room, seizing it in her teeth mid-air, and gnashing it around until its neck broke. It was shocking and violent, traumatic for the kids, calamitous for the carpet, and forever changed my future (my next house will have a heat pump, or I’m getting a divorce).
It’s just awful to hold in your palm a gentle thing which has died violently but still feels warm with life. To balance the dreadfulness of that, here’s a little soul who bashed himself against a window a few months ago and was helplessly exhausted by the time we found him. He’s given up the fight here, as you can see.
He spent two hours on a warm wheat-bag inside a shoebox, came to, accepted some linseed, performed a modest toilet, and then tore out of the opened lid and into the sky. It was joyful, and a relief. Just look at those delicate, cross-hatched feathers.
Anyway, sometimes you need a pointless fire for your cat and dog to gaze at while your children destroy you at Uno and a Wellington wind screams around the house. A jolly, bobbling orange thing adds comfort, at a time when comfort is in lean supply. If you don’t have a fireplace or wood-burner, I recommend typing CONTINUOUS CRACKLING FIRE SOUNDS into the Spotify search-bar. Many’s the bedtime I’ve had a fake fire blazing on my phone to add atmosphere to an otherwise deathless Karori night.
Well, it’s my birthday soon. And every year, the words that inspire dread: WHAT IS IT YOU WANT?
I genuinely never know the answer to this question. I’ve been asked this repeatedly by a psychologist and I always go absolutely blank. I mean, the first thing that comes to mind is a rice cooker. But to ask for and receive a rice cooker for one’s 52nd birthday isn’t even a metaphor for the failure of one’s potential. It’s proof.
(I waterlog rice two times out of three. Even the easy-cook kind, and always Basmati. A rice cooker would be life-changing for my household but seriously, I should be able to think of something.)
Normal women would treat themselves to a gel manicure on their birthday, or a blow-dry, or take themselves off for a fancy lunch. But these things are as fleeting as cherry flowers. Getting a chipped nail or waking up with bed hair would signal something sadly philosophical, like the brevity of happiness. As the French might say, a small death. (Actually, that means orgasm, doesn’t it? Trust the French to be insouciant about death and pleasure).
I’d like to be French for my birthday, perhaps. Or just insouciant. That’s what I’d probably like at 52 - a little more shrug, and a little less neurosis. But this would require the total bulldozing of my personality (I mean, have you met me? I keep anti-nausea tablets in my handbag at all times. ALL TIMES.)
I’ll probably pay for an hour with a dog obedience expert, in the end. Not only is Otto obsessed by me (he got into the bedroom on Sunday morning and swirly-licked my eyelashes into clumps. It was completely disgusting), but he won’t stop leaping up at visitors and seems to think George’s arm exists for him to hang from, by his teeth. He also yanks the lead. These are all basic rookie mistakes we could have avoided, and they make life with him exhausting.
I imagine my birthday present to myself will arrive with a clicker and a fanny-pack of dog treats. They will sensibly disapprove of my poor dog-handling skills and my lack of authority in this relationship (I mean, have you MET me? I can’t even control my own PARTING). Again, I will be asked what it is that I want. It is the question of the ages, the question impossible to answer quickly, clearly, truthfully, at all.
I’d like him to stop humping cushions. Can we start there?
Rice - a cooker by all means. But the ancient method.. Wash the rice, swirling with the fingers, repeat 8 times (8 being as suspicious number …) when water runs clear, drain then cover the rice with cold water to the depth of the first joint at the tip of the index finger - finger tip just touching rice. Lid on pot. Bring to boil, switch off, leaving covered. 15-20 minutes later absorption will have done the job. Fluff up with a fork - or chopsticks if you’re minded that way. 🙏
Once again, loved reading, Leah. ‘I’d like to be French for my birthday, perhaps. Or just insouciant. That’s what I’d probably like at 52 - a little more shrug, and a little less neurosis.’
Ha! Reading in the middle of the UK night after waking from an anxious dream, I can see the appeal of that!