Grounded

Ponies fed, watered, mucked out and chatted to, first draft of letter to TES and/or The Guardian done and emailed to friend for proof-reading, ingredients in bread-maker and washing machine set and clinking away. What else will distract me from vacuuming the stairs and landing? When I finish my mug of tea, write, and enjoy writing this, my excuses will be gone.

As I was musing on the flying son's whereabouts, my eldest son phoned to tell me they had also received an invitation to a special birthday party at the end of the month, and were we going? Why yes! Of course! We wouldn't miss it for the world; as Spring begins to dream of summer, evenings are light well into the night and the sea is a yodel away, what a perfect time to dress up and party in the South Hams.

There was a time when I did not enjoy parties. It seemed as if people hung around waiting for something to happen, or for the evening to end, drinking, eating, chatting and trying hard to listen and hear. Introducing myself and chatting to new faces didn't happen. Unexpectedly and to my fascination, things have changed and I have no idea when, why or how. They just changed. Now, after years, I can happily list all the positives about parties; dressing up, the anticipation of who will be there and the company of friends and strangers.

And now, after a morning of avoidance, carpet and the vacuum cleaner beckon.

Today our son leaves for New Zealand; soaring from the nest, the last lark leaves. He is the symbol of freedom; He is Jonathan Livingston Seagull, He is The Eagle of the poem that he and countless others studied at GCSE, soaring high and viewing the world and he is the swallow, waiting, on the telephone wire in late summer, until the time is right. He is my symbol of freedom.

Today he leaves. I feel a twinge of emptiness, yet have been so enthusiastic and excited as this trip has been planned since last year when he returned from four months in South America, with his brother. I am surprised that this feeling has so firmly foreshadowed my day.

Will our chunky Jack Russell oblige and stay in a bicycle basket? We are ready to branch out and cycle, as well as walk, and while he is delighted to the point of manic yapping when we get ready to walk, he can't trot along beside bicycles; fast cars are dangerous and he will get left behind. Anonymous letters pop through the box onto the mat if he is left 'home alone.'

JR Teddy has a range of unbearable sounds. He barks at Sally, the postlady and grabs the letters as they come through the box. but there are never toothmarks on the anonymous notes about him. For the telephone, his pitch is high, and continuous like a bag-pipe. Perhaps, like the pipers, he can breath through his nose and wail at the same time. If I am home and pick up the phone the noise stops but if not he continues, I presume.

Bicycle basket it is.