The glory of Wednesday sings through the grey sodden clouds. Its notes of joy cascade onto glistening rooftops, finally settling on the stark rugged road. The tyres of cars echo the damp virtue of our blessed rain. In fields and gardens the fruits of our sky give food and nourishment to the young growth of an early spring. And we see the green. It is a fresh vibrant green unknown to any other day than today.
The clock ticks. Each new shoot is beginning its exclusive journey through the optimism of youth. You know; we know, their eventual paths towards the closure of Autumn. But we are in love with its innocence. It’s the innocence of childhood.
I wait. The morning is young. A day is ready and waiting. The man arrives. He is young and curious. He likes the piano. My shelves are filled with the food of the week. It’s an old routine for and old man like me. With the love and devotion of the hunter gatherer, I sort through the colourful harvest, dividing and storing. This is the true delight of my Wednesday. I feel blessed to apportion my food into fridge, freezer and cupboard. I can do it. I do it myself with no-one to stand and mock my ineptitude.
Slowly, the kettle comes to life to furnish my morning desperation for tea. Even without sugar it is sweet. I smile. I am comfortable. So much is possible. Whilst the peace and comfort of my current life is no compensation for the sense of loss I feel for time and friends gone by, I have the vision of the future.
The future is neither rosy or ill-fated. It’s just real and I must make the best of it. The rest of the day is immersed in the quietude of silent confidence. I see news of the sick and twisted individuals who offer futile gestures of selfish bias and narrow minded ambition. Why are they there, spouting the poison of the ignorant? Wealth is not power. Fame and recognition is not power.
Experience, knowledge and compassion is a power that needs a high level of management. Use it for good. Don’t build walls with it.
I was creative in the kitchen. Chicken liver pate was made. I gently fried the onions before adding the lovers, garlic and mustard powder. Frying in butter adds a soft calm to the gentle rippling of the much loved pan. More butter was added as I set it in the processor to blend into a smooth conglomeration of comforting flavours. You know what? I made it twatty.
After seasoning, I scooped them into ramekins with a bay leaf and cranberries before sealing them with a buttery carapace. Simple food; sensational tastes.
For dinner I rescued an unctuously soft piece of focaccia from the freezer and plunged it into my vegetarian Boston baked beans. No bacon! The smoky overtures developed into the creamy fullness of the beans and an after taste of understated chillies.
I took to my dream chair. With the comforting hum of the motors, it eased me back into a state of prone relaxation. Then I dreamt of a journey. In dreams my journeys never reach the end. The transport changes and I struggle to walk. I know what I want to do but my dreams know the truth.
Every Tuesday I’ve been raging against the truth. I exercise like a demon on the standing machine and the static bicycle. Is it futile? No it’s not. It’s about feeling. I like sprinting back down the hill, ravenous and craving tea. I sit down but there’s no collapse. That’s the story of my mid-week.
Thank-you for reading.