Of fragility, editing and prime ministerial visits

Still feeling rather fragile today – understandably so after the slings and arrows of yesterday. Have had another look through that report on The Gifting and highlighted the suggestions for change in the midst of the general negativity and condescension. Actually, there aren’t that many, and certainly not anything I can’t do, but the editor who shall remain nameless seems to have made a huge deal of them. So I shall get on and do those I think are okay and kick into touch the nonsense parts.

With that in mind, I have – as of yesterday – written a prologue (something I swore I’d never do, as I usually hate prologues, but I think it works here) and gone through the first (fairly short) three chapters. Adding in and taking out where I think necessary. I also think I’m going to add in four short sections spoken in another voice (another first for me …) as these will, I hope(!), add greater depth and up the tension notches. Hurrah.

Oh, and Lord H tells me that our new PM, the noble Mr Brown, has shown his solidarity and concern for our local hard-pressed farmers in the middle of the new foot-and-mouth crisis (yes, it is just down the road from us, sadly) by visiting … um … Reigate. Well, thanks a bunch, Mr B – if only you’d checked a map of Surrey first, you might have realised that Reigate is nowhere near Wanborough. Or maybe you just fancied a trip to Reigate? Who can tell, eh …

However, Lord H also tells me (he has to drive past the exclusion zone on his way to work) that there are two policemen standing guard near the “Do Not Pass This Point” notice, fighting off this horribly virulent virus with the aid of two truncheons and a happy policemen’s song. Well, the nation will be safe then, hurrah. We can all rest soundly in our beds.

Work has happened today. As ever. Not much else to say about it really. Except that I did buy three books of large letter stamps and went for a walk round the lake at lunchtime. Where I saw a juvenile wagtail. At least I think that’s what it was …

And here’s a poem:

Butterflies

The more you chase them
the more your poems
disappear,
as multi-coloured
and unreachable
as butterflies.

Take a breath then;
no need to rush.

Sit awhile.
Wait.
When the air is sufficiently still,
watch your words drift back,
nestling fresh-winged,
whole

on the palm of your trusting hand.



Today’s nice things:

1. Writing a prologue to The Gifting
2. Laughing at the Prime Minister
3. My lunchtime walk.

Anne Brooke
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