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Cadwell NOT Caldwell
Co-existing
[3 minute read ]
Early riser
Doors and windows open at 03:55 and the dawn chorus flooded my home. The outside temperature was at 16oC and the inside temperature is dropping from 23oC. Abruptly, at 04:11 a.m. there was almost complete silence; birds, seemingly as one, agreed that they were all in their right places and there were not going to be any usurpers for control of a space.
'Are we all in our territories? Can we agree?'
A few young 'chancers' with poor prospects for food, flitted nervously to branches on different trees in new areas, and found disapproving veterans glaring at them; eliciting new campaign songs. Solitary birds individually chirped, and then after eight minutes, I heard the usual morning songs; the majority near me were the sparrows' un-melodic and repetitive single cheep. I filtered those out and, perhaps 80 feet, or 26 metres away, I heard my favourite; the cock Blackbird. Perhaps he has poor eyesight, because only after fifteen minutes, did he move closer to my open window, and his tangy song romped strongly through my home.
I have to put my wellies in the space between the open front door and the jamb, so the local cats, from the smell inside my boots, recognise they are not at the portal to their own homes, and their favourite soft places are not here. Garden shears leaning against the door prevent it from swinging open. Despite there being only the slightest breeze, and I have a low expectation of it moving, I still feel a need, like a coy maiden, to preserve some modesty. That door is never wantonly open to lusty entrance.
It will be a hot day, the forecasters say. My seedling leeks will need close attention and the wet clothes I shall hang out, will be rapidly replaced with more wet clothes, as the day progresses and they shed their watery weight. Slowly, the temperature inside is falling, but by now I know that it will not fall sufficiently for me to be satisfied that I rose early enough to lower the inside temperature to 20oC; a temperature I aim for every Summer day, and rarely achieve. It is only a niggle, a mere observance; something I would celebrate throughout the day when I keep crossing the threshold between wild, unrestrained nature and shaped, curtailed home environment. I shall carefully watch the three thermometers, to gauge when to shut the weather out and contain my shielded interior climate. There will be no cooking today; no bread under the grill; no baked beans on toast for breakfast, and no cheese on toast snacks. I wish I had cold, home-made pizza in the fridge; I didn't look or think forward enough, it seems.
The pepper plant on the kitchen window will enjoy today, but, if it could see and if it could think, it would sullenly eye me suspiciously; begrudging that it is constrained in a small pot and it is reliant on me to keep its roots moist. A large mirror, reflective side facing out to provide light from all sides to the pepper plant, leans against the window pane, and 'out of sight, out of mind' hangs ominously over the fate of the plant, today, tomorrow, but unlike Katniss in 'The Hunger Games', not forever. It is two years old and will probably die this Summer. I have already shown it just how clumsy my memory is, and how careless I can be, only a couple or three weeks ago. The twenty nine tomato plants, finally safer transplanted into the garden, will attest to that; they, while well-fed in their pots, were always thirsty. Heavily watered soil in the garden is on my team right now, but if I lose myself in my daydreams, that team cohesion will erode, and the clay soil will, both recede from the roots, and grip them tightly. Just leaving the garden hose lying on the grass will not preserve my past efforts to grow plants from seeds, and it will not, unused, compliment the nurturing of tree and bush cuttings. When I connect the hose to the water mains, I will lament the wasted water that squirts from the poorly fitted union of the hose and the bath tap. The tap designer probably never grew a bean in damp tissue inside a jar at primary school. The tap spout is not circular or round, as functionality might dictate; it is oval, as aesthetic design rudely demands. The hose and the tap are poor team-mates and neither one cares. To me, function is beautiful, and fashion is gaudy, garish and empty. I will forget that the residual water in the hose lain across the lawn will have been heated by the sun, and it is too hot to give to the plants I like. Later, in days to come, I will wonder why some plants are doing better than others.
Now the sun has climbed in the East, the hot rays will enter my home, and I must draw the curtains on that side of the house, so there are no gaps. When the outside and inside temperatures match I shall close the windows behind the drawn curtains, but only if the sun has moved to shine on a different wall. The door to that room shall be shut, and I will try not to re-enter that room; but I know, because there are heritage plants on the window-sill, I shall need to open the door to moisten the soil at least twice today.
Some people love the heat of Summer and others not so much. I used to hate windy days until I took up sailing. I, being contrary, and once called a 'Doubting Thomas', am undecided.
In the city, the temperature had risen past comfortable for Noah. At the kerb, his shoe kept sticking to the evaporated ice cream drips and spilt cola drinks. Traffic somnambulently drifted past; the gaps between the slow moving vehicles never enough for him to cross. A dozen people waited with him. The two Americans among them, kept nervously looking around for crossings and 'Walk' and 'Don't Walk' signs, fearful of the consequences of jay-walking in the UK, while they attempted to educate their two small children on city traffic. Just as on the underground, no-one seemed to look at each other, but everyone was aware of where everyone else was. Reflected in everyone's sunglasses, they saw the sun, the buildings, themselves, and the people behind them.
Emma, looking cool in a white Summer dress that reached her mid-calf, pretended to be patient. She liked to present herself as serene and in control. In truth, she itched with sweat, and wished it was the weekend and she could take a shower at home in her own time. She knew she would inevitably see Amanda in the office toilet, vigorously wiping her armpits with wet paper towels. Emma knew from distant washroom experience that Amanda liked 'au naturel' when it came to hygiene and grooming. 'Fluffy cushions', Emma thought, was Amanda's biggest mistake.
James, in the Coffee Bar over the road, checked the ice-maker. There would, he knew, be a run on Frappés today. Crushed or chunked, ice would not last long in many drinks this afternoon. He was grateful for the air-conditioning. Perhaps Jo would come in, and stand in front of him, for just a couple of seconds longer than the other customers, with her open and unblinking gaze and tiny smile, before she moved away after ordering another random drink. He wrote 'Jo' on a cup and placed it to one side.