Sunday, 31 July 2011

They perch vicariously on the deck together, man and daughter, having to repair and measure and paint and sand and mask. The breeze blows across from the South West. We wait for our lunch. Cottage cheese and fresh tomatoes remembered from baby bump. My greedy green little fingers  want to unwrap warm chocholatey sticks and smear them in Grandad's cockpit, the warm August sun smears my face with angio freckles. Quite distasteful to some. Munch, munch can't find the crisps. A little dog runs across to visit, paws caked with sand and nose with cockle shells. I meet my friend Stacey from Lewisham. We work out the formula, how to get men and make babies. I go home to my big old house and make tea for the gorgeous creature who is my man. I wait for next summer to raise it's face in my direction.

The sun is high against the sky and shining down on us again, oh how much paradise can one person take?
I never realized life by the sea could be this good. Even the angry, soft hum of the docking cranes  from the other side of the port enter my consciousness like the light breeze against the tan on my arms and nervous grumpy and hateful shins. Lord Jesus you provided me with hope and I rushed out of the Hill House all alone one day. How the presents never arrived like you said they would. How I cried on and on like a spoilt baby and wet myself stinky after six years in the freezing cold water. I got so angry I caught a chicken fowl and rung it's neck so many times that it didn't even bleed any more so I swore to Satan he would love me afloat on my estuary boat, afloat once more.

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