It is mid-summer and the Olympics are murmuring away in the background. It is probably a sound I will miss when it is all over. Dad is peeling the centre pages out of the Cornishman newspaper and is now stuffing a bed of it into the bottom of the stove... one eye on the basketball, his fingers fumbling with a match… a flame is alive. I hope it warms my feet. Saffron, our dog, must have seen the commotion, for she is now lying belly up before the fire, waiting for the comforting heat.
It is mid-summer. How many times have we heard the mumblings of an indignant holidaymaker these past two months, with their “Worst summer we’ve ever had.. never seen the likes of it”?
I’ve had a wonderful summer so far. Little pieces of it have meant a lot to me.
Yesterday we packed up and left the Dorset farmhouse in sunshine. It was sad in a way to see our home-for-a-week cleared into the boots of cars and the voices dwindle to just those of my brother, Rob, and me. Two hours to kill before his train back to London , we had a coffee in Bridport and talked. Really talked. You know, not for the sake of entertaining those around us or catching up on the frills of news and intrigues.. but talking about big stuff: Life, Love, Happiness, Loss, Guilt. Rob really heard me. I think I often struggle with the role I fall into when I am around my family. Whilst relaxed and chatty with friends, I find there isn’t always enough space for that in my family. I fall back into the quietude that I always played out as the youngest, preferring to talk with just one or two at a time. I sometimes wish I wasn’t like it. I might slip away into the kitchen and clear up or I have the distraction of my camera to play with if I feel lost in a loud conversation around me. I need to be able to withdraw sometimes.
What does it matter! Roles can changes. I just wish my family saw more of who I am.
Mum is feeling bad and I need to sign off for now and cheer her up. With the best intentions, she did Soph’s washing and has shrunk the new cardigan I bought her. “I feel so guilty” she has just said, “(…) like a child”. Chastised. She wants to get things perfect and to please us. Always. She doesn’t seem to believe that it just isn’t important. It doesn’t matter when something breaks. These things happen. Things can be replaced. Mum only ever wants to make her children happy. I think she is an incredible person, but it is hard to see her dealing with mistakes when she so tirelessly fights to make things perfect all the time.
The fire is low again and Saffron has turned to the boiler in the kitchen for her belly-warmth.
Mid-summer and the rain is smudging the windows.
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