Good Omens

As I snapped the florets from a head of calabrese in the early-evening calm of supper making, our letting agent called to break the news that we had been served notice by our landlord. While she outlined the details, I stood, floret in hand, silently mouthing curses, mind running, running, galloping through the house and gathering my belongings, as though a fire bell had sounded.

With around six months to go before our own house is ready and two months before the landlord is standing at the front door, jangling his keys and hemming impatiently, we are plunged into another move. More boxes and packing, more credit checks, address labels, unknown neighbours and searching for somewhere that we can live for these last few months of the journey home.

With some synchronicity, a homeopathic remedy I'd ordered for myself, had arrived in the post that day. I popped it in my mouth like a character from the Matrix, hoping I'd picked the right one and would wake in the morning with a light step and new purpose.

During the night I had the most fantastical dream. I found myself at a friend's birthday party, surrounded by smiling faces, drinking a nectar-ish cocktail. When the time came to leave this delicious party, our friend drove us into the country in an open top car - warm air rushing over our laughing cheeks. We stopped next to a brook, piled out of the car into the starlit night and saw the most enormous damselflies fluttering about over the water. Their iridescent wings were larger than a pair of hands and they flew about us in little shimmering orbs of light. I knew instinctively that everything would be just fine, because these damselflies would make it so.

When Fin woke me moments later, I felt as though a huge weight had fallen away in the night.

Downstairs over breakfast we were discussing a stair lift we'd seen the day before and I told Fin jokingly that I would rather be sent out to sea on a raft with a hundredweight of dark chocolate than suffer the ignominies of using a stair lift (of course, if it came to that, I'm sure I'd accept the lift gratefully - but that's not my point here). We then fell to wondering how much chocolate one would get in a hundredweight and had to fetch down the dictionary to look it up.

Fin ran his finger down the pages, from ha to hi, to hun and then to hundredweight - 112 lb in the UK. 'Wow! That's over a thousand bars of chocolate!'. A huge smile broke over both our faces as we imagined sailing out to sea with this enormous bounty.

'Aren't dictionaries brilliant, Fin?' I asked, as we packed his bag for school, and he agreed wholeheartedly - replaying the image of all that chocolate in his mind - hundredweight, mmm.... 

I hugged him extra hard with a little lump of pride in my throat, because I do love a dictionary and have been known to thumb the pages idly - as though window shopping for thoughts. All is well with me if my son can appreciate one too.

So now I have that comforting feeling that something, somewhere, is looking over me.

All I need to do is get on with it.

x x x