Bluebells of sighs

In the morning sunshine, two small children frolicked through the Bluebells in the wood up at Stanmer Park. The gale was easing down but present enough to deter visitors. Not a dog walker. Nary a crackhead. Not even the guy in a plastic shirt running. Just little Lou and little Al. The sun cut through the trees lighting the carpets of tiny flowers, the wind took their scent, pumping out of them after a day of rain. These slopes are protected. Not much mud. Just enough wind for the smell to be so present. The sound of birds, trees and yes, cars. But mostly nature.

Blue. That sharp bright blue in carpets between the trees, and we must have hit the peak of it then, as the storm was winding out. Something so ancient in that smell, in this shock of tiny seasonal flowers that were there for the Romans as they were for the Normans as they were when we fought the Germans. We were mostly silent, glad of the peace and the beauty.

“I want you to have this to remember when you’re shut in,” says Lou. And I will. The bluebells! I’ve booked the cheapest hotel with parking on the island of Jersey. I’ll be shut in a room there, looking out at a wall, surrounded by beige for five days, occasionally sticking something all the way up my nose in order to discover what we already knew. I’ve booked it for a week to get me through quarantine and a bit more. God knows where then. Hopefully somewhere where I can cook. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. At least the first week is covered. I can sit there and remember the bluebells and Lou and the light after the storm.

Now I’m in bed. I’m up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to discover what it means to go to Jersey now that everything is fucked. First I’ve got to drive to Portsmouth. Then my last taste of freedom on the ferry where I intend to spend the whole damn crossing on deck unless it’s a typhoon. Then into my beige box for five days where I’ll end up going feral and drawing pictures of bluebells with ketchup sachets.

Mao just jumped up on the bed. I’ve only got about 7 hours before the alarm so I’m gonna stroke all the things that must be stroked and doze off happily.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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