I caught the tail end of an adaptation of a story called ‘Cuckoo’ on the radio this morning as I prepared breakfast. It flitted back and forth from the past to the present and ostensibly was about a mother who was sent away from her children, home and husband because of her volatile mental state. A state that was ‘created’ by a so-called friend who ousted her. ‘The word mother should never be mentioned’ – she told the children. One of her sons is looking back trying to remember what happened. ‘My mother printed a hundred copies of her memoir’, he says, ‘and then threw ninety-three in a skip.’
They’re meant to be good for your heart. I love them baked and steamed but the smell can be noxious. One of the contributors on From Our Own Correspondent on Radio 4 yesterday spoke of their importance in Indian cuisine and its economy. Onions. Know your onions, what is that all about?
He answered. I’m on the Perygyl, he said. He’d walked. I was pleased. He was pleased. It’s lovely, he said.
So much to do. Sit with me as work. Help me to find the words. Help me to be relaxed, to let the narrative unfold.