The constant april fool stories on Radio four are troubling me. I was genuinely excited about Nigel presenting More or Less and I’m disappointed it’s not true. Mostly they’re easy to spot, 3D radio anyone? but as I scrutinise each item my grasp on the nature of reality slips – who know’s what plausible? Clearly not me.
Ida insists on watching meerkat manor which is relentlessly nature red in tooth and claw. A leader in waiting has just disposed of her rival’s new litter by eating them. Distracted by her loss the mother is quickly disposed. It is a suitable antidote to my mental navel gazing.
I am now divided between finishing the teeny-weeny bunting for Mums mothers day hyacinth basket and the (Odin help me) crackers. Fecking crackers. The bunting is more pressing but involves opening the jack in the box style stuffed scrap material basket.
So instead I am blog wandering.
Zeph asked if I believed in ghosts this morning. He’d got into bed with us in the early grey light, a relatively rare occurrence these days. I presume he’s had a bad dream. I’m slightly on alert at the moment as one of his friends at school is going through a tough time with her mum being ill. I pay attention to his question and think hard.
I don’t not believe in ghosts. What I do believe is trickier, I think this is a life’s work. I remind him of our recent trip to stay with Alice in Bristol. We made biscuits on the lazy sunday morning and when she added a pinch of salt she took a pinch, added what she wanted, threw the excess over her left shoulder then quickly kissed the still pinched fingers to the gods. Swiftly and fluidly because that’s how she always salts things. Which is how I salt things and how I observed Zeph salting the chicken for our fajitas we cooked the other day for tea. If he cooks with my mum he’ll see it there too. Or he probably won’t because it’s unremarkable in its everydayness. Except that morning, watching Alice I suddenly did notice and I felt as though Granny was next to me with her hand on my shoulder. Because it stems from her, and through her from her colourful Grammie. And so it goes on.
So I say to my son with the big questions that I feel like candyfloss wrapped around and spun with a million haunting threads of legacy, stories and habits. We spoon in the quiet half hour before the alarm and he traces the lifelines on my hand. I wait for more questions but they don’t come today.