This morning the birds are singing in the day under a clouded sky. The air is fresh and gently perfumed. I breathe deeply to determine what might be coming from my soap and what is flora on the breeze.
Alt text says this week’s photo is a mug of hot chocolate and a photo of two men. I say it is a photo of a mug of hot chocolate next to a coaster, with a picture of me and Paddington Bear eating marmalade sandwiches on it, along with two carefully balanced biscuits. I also say it is a picture of the kind of comforting drink I have when I am sitting quietly on a cold day.
In the week that began with Brew Monday I found much joy in hydration, good company and conversation. From minty tea in a zoom room, to soup and fizzy orange in a pub, to tea and water in the company of a wonderful friend.
I have thoroughly enjoyed reflecting on where I have taken time for specific refreshments this week, and who I have been fortunate enough to share time with. I raise my pint glass of water to all of that and to remembering how my brain feels fully plugged in when I am well hydrated. It’s another of those self-care habits that I can sometimes be a bit slow about when the day starts, but the reminders I have given myself this week stand me in good stead for paying attention more fully right now.
I amused myself this week when I found myself emerging from the rabbit hole that was me reviewing my hair in my poetry videos. It had started as a dedicated period of time to tackle some admin jobs and before I knew it I was giving my hair ratings out of 10 in the videos. I am not sure how productive this was, but it definitely entertained me. Along the way I loved rediscovering the poem about the time I felt a sudden urge to get a haircut on holiday, and the way everything the following day suddenly became linked by things that cost seventy pence. It has not been published anywhere, but I do like the fact that it is a poem that sets down a moment in time.
Here’s the poem (You can click the title for the link to the YouTube video if you like such things.)
Yesterday, I tipped the hairdresser
making her seven pounds into ten.
She stopped me from trying to outwalk
a floppy quiff on holiday;
she cut the risk of a halo cloud of flies
on walks through barley fields;
she reignited my confidence
to look in mirrors, talk to strangers,
linger in a strange shop with buttons,
bunting and washed-out old bottles.
My wife hinted that ten percent
would have been more usual.
But I couldn’t think what that would buy.
Then today, I gave seventy pence to a man
reading car park charges at a parking meter;
I found a 1979 edition of The Wolf
And The Seven Little Kids
that cost seventy pence back then.
I bought a postcard for my Dad at the art gallery
and took the opportunity to ask the woman who served me:
How much would you tip for a seven pound haircut?
About a pound, she said.
Sue Finch 