Riffing in Writing

  I am standing in the middle of the road in the Lower Village, and I am staring at my phone. I am dressed for a walk: faded felt Bolivian sunhat, bird decorated recycled plastic backpack from the RSPB (best backpack ever, by the way) and boots. Some clothes as well, in case you were worried. It is seven a.m. on the last day of April. A heatwave is forecast; the world around is singing with the surprise and scents of early summer.  And I am standing staring at my phone.  A man marches past at purposeful speed with a word, ‘Morning’. He too is thumbing his phone. Automatically, I judge him. He is missing the day in his rush to the station. I always judge people who are on their phones. How can they be confined to tech when the sounds and burgeoning fresh colours of life surround them?  But clutched in my hand is my own device, and my eyes are downcast and focused on the pixels.  But THIS is Merlin. I want to excuse myself, to run after him and show him the app. T...

  I’m waterskiing! I’m actually up on my feet, it’s exhilarating!  Whooping, I manage a swerve across the wake and, wobbling, regain my equilibrium, gripping the bar, feeling strong and in control. The powerful motorboat that tows me seems solid, the pilot drives swiftly, confidently. The spray on my face is cool in the sunshine. But I see a wave coming our way from the left, and behind it, another. There are several, and each is bigger than the last. I will the pilot to turn into the rising water so we can rise with it. There’s no time to stop, to get out of the way. A sense of impending doom wells up in my centre; the young helmsman clearly has no idea what to do. A dark cloud scuds in front of the sun. She’s swerving erratically, and, attached, I have no option but to cling on and follow. What? The boat is finally nosing towards the wave but can’t surf over it. It is too late, the mountain of water is curling above the prow, and the entire boat is swamped, pulled into the d...

  I stand and I stare at the twisted silver-barked branch, with its velvety buds already beginning to appear on fresh purple stems that are growing in profusion now that it is spring. It is half of my neighbour’s magnolia tree, carefully pruned and tended for years, then sawn off unceremoniously by busy builders because it was in the way. Roy died two years ago, and now his magnolia lies on our lawn, where I dragged it after asking the preoccupied men with tape measures and tools if I could take it. I am seeking something, as I scan the bends and curves. I have a new book by Jogge Sundkvist, the Swedish woodcarver, and on page thirty I saw that a simple hook for coats can be hewn from a bent branch. Somewhere, in this tangle, I am going to find my hook. It takes time to see it. I go out and linger on the lawn, seemingly idle and vacant, while I am meant to be cooking dinner. I pause again before I get on my bike to go to work, letting my eyes meander along the curves. Eventually I ...

  ‘It looks like Mordor’, says D, my son, as he divests himself of coat and boots after a solo winter walk. ‘What’s going on?’ So I look online. One entry tells me that our Large Wood is ‘ classified as ‘ancient semi-natural woodland’, and hugely appreciated by local walkers ’. I know this. Every spring the wood anemones and then the bluebells bring swathes of light and beauty and colour after the long muted winter, and my path often diverges from its well trodden river route to go up the hill and through the forest where I stand and stare and drink in life.  Another website reads: ‘We are proud custodians of (the) Large Wood, a place rich in history and natural beauty.’ (It was.)   ‘Our commitment to this woodland goes beyond preservation—we aim to enhance its biodiversity and ensure it thrives for future generations. To achieve this, we have developed a woodland management plan….. approved by the Forestry Commission… One of our key goals is to protect the historic charm...

I have discovered that I am actually a squirrel. Not as energetic, or grey (yet), but definitely a squirrel. I first notice this in autumn, when the creatures can be seen forgetting their safety, lingering on roads, digging in the hedgerows, foraging and storing for winter. At the same time, every landowner for miles begins to take down unwanted trees and create huge piles of wood. I carve spoons and, working with green wood, I have developed a radar for potential utensils hidden in felled branches. I scan back and forth across my path for anything that could come in handy once submitted to axe and knife. This is, surely, a Good Thing. It is good to plan, to collect, to forage. To see potential everywhere. I forget that I already have wood ready to be carved at home, that carting home yet another log will then become a job to be done that weighs on me and needs my attention. As I stand at the foot of a huge pile of brushwood and branches, many of them tantalisingly bent in just the ri...

1st December. My Dear Wormwood,  This is a dangerous time of year for us, so I write with urgent haste to advise you on strategies to keep your patient’s eyes and thoughts away from our enemy and his so-called promises. There is much else to occupy her at the moment, and we have made great strides in recent years - don’t be the one to let down our Father below and allow your patient to slip through your grasp and into that despicable state they call ‘faith’ or ‘hope’. If you do that, she might start to create ripples around her which will keep you out, she may even begin to ‘rejoice’, and, what with all our forward movement in spreading despair and turmoil recently, that will attract attention and you will find yourself in deep trouble.  So, a reminder of the strategies that are proving most effective in attacking our enemy’s 'children', which he professes to want to be friends with, of all things. Ready? Firstly, distraction. Make sure your patient is never far from their d...