It was wild yesterday morning. The wind was a force. I walked into it. Then it seemed to shift direction, now it was off the sea, now it was from the south, then the north. I was buffeted, my coat hood flapping against my ears. I don’t mind it. It is alive. I feel alive. My limbs are bruised, my muscles used in such a walk. And such sounds it makes. Not just the wind itself but the objects it encounters. Down at the harbour especially, such a jangling of rigging. Sometimes there is a scream, a screech, then a howl. All is intensified in the darkness. There is a whistling, a singing, a whispering, a rattling. The harbour water grows black, it swirls and shifts. No wonder sailors imagined sirens, singing mermaids. Such howling is barely human, beyond human. Who would go out in such weather? I would succumb to the drowning, let it be, let the howling cease. Take me into the dark, cold depths. There is warmth in death.
I woke cross. It was my dream. There was a little girl. A blonde-haired little poppet. Moon-faced and charming. But she kept appearing at windows. High windows. She was on ledges, on balconies, unafraid, it seemed of falling. I was responsible for her and I couldn’t stop her from putting herself in danger, from taking risks. She made me cross. I couldn’t catch her, find her. She’d just appear at opportune moments at the side of my vision. I know what it means. I can see it.
Another Lee Hall radio play. They are good. They are fantastic pieces of writing. All from a child’s perspective. We listen as they try to reason out the unreasonable. Trying to find their own power. A fourteen-year-old girl who wants to be become pregnant to compensate for the loss of her father. You’re not pregnant, shouts her mother after they’ve been to the doctor, you’ve not even had sex. And yet, she is such a wise girl. Profoundly so. It’s not about hate, it’s about love, she says. At least the baby will be mine. And her brother, Scout, who buries his father’s socks to make him come back to life. And he does.
Easter is coming early. Shrove Tuesday next week. I made him pancakes yesterday. We didn’t know. Lent. I dispense with treats. Coffee beans from Monmouth Coffee in Covent Garden with their smell of toffee and chocolate and Jo Malone Candles, my monthly massage, pomegranates.
I heard the owl as a I walked, albeit briefly, this morning. It isn’t twit twoo. It’s more like a moaning, a keening. I couldn’t see it in the dark. It sounded like it was overhead. It’s call echoing above me.
The sky is a mass of clouds. Milky white covering the blue. The wind has dropped and there is no rain, yet. The bird song is splendid pre-dawn. They think it is Spring. Not long, not long now. Soon.