Fejoias

Saturday 8.35pm

Funky little fruits these, piled in a bowl they remind me of a whole lot of cartoon mice with their fat bodies and little ears. Their colour is incredible – an intense deep grassy green beneath a veil of misty white. The depth of colour is more than matched by their smell which to me is tropical but slightly alien, like nothing else I have smelt before and yet leaves me strangely unfulfilled because I cannot place the smell anywhere in my past. Or is it perhaps because of their taste ? This I cannot get used to. I keep trying them, cutting them in half and scooping out the squashy insides with a teaspoon - and every time it strikes me as more like something from the Bodyshop, something to be worn not eaten.

But the fruity sirens just keep calling to me, and I cannot resist.

Tagged

Saturday 7.20pm

A hamster in life's cherry bowl

Well, Pherenike has tagged me with this :-

1. Write your own six-word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog (and include a visual illustration if you’d like).
3. Link to the person who tagged you in your post.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. Remember to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.

And as someone who cannot resist a dare ( as long as it does not involve cruelty to anything ) I had to have a go.

It is not easy - sum your life up in just six words. But after two days and (one nights sleep) I feel I have caught the spirit of my place in the world. Should I explain it ? . . . . nah, I'll leave that up to you.

And who am I tagging ? Well two people I think ( it seems the five are not compulsory ) - Nicola, and Keriann.

A fragment

Saturday 8.24am

A single pair of head lights moves silently towards me through the pools of gathering darkness below. I lean back against the car bonnet and sip beer from a bottle, watching. From my vantage point on the side of this hill the horizon is a bright line ahead, dark ragged clouds cross the sky above and the colour is draining out of the land below. Dusk is just beginning.

The wind buffets me insistently, bringing the clouds closer as a fresh, clean dampness that I can feel on my face and hands. And see too in the droplets forming on my jumper. I shiver contentedly. All around is the quiet tearing sound of the sheep eating, always eating, and on the wind, a distant bird cry.

I feel . . . grey. Like the darkening land that I, even in my melancholy isolation am part of. And content as well. This is how it is. Other people live life whilst I stand on a lonely hillside drinking beer and watch the dusk settle in.

A fragment of a memory, more a feeling really. It was brought on by a single scene of a solitary whale leaping in a deserted marineland pool, in of all things, a car advert.