Thursday, April 16, 2009

Shell sound, that's what a squill is and no porpoises.

1. All week my father has been blowing on winkle shells to make them whistle

2. My aunt shows me tight-curled squills -- tiny fists that have squeezed themselves blue -- hiding in the rough clifftop grass.

3. There are no porpoises to be seen, but there is the wind thrumming on the cables of the coastguard's radio mast; and a white pony that gravely lips my open hands.

Doing dips, practical and post.

1. I'm into week four, and to my surprise, I'm doing triceps dips. Not very well, and I can't manage the whole forty-five second...