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.

After shopping, second to last bottle of red and Jupiter.

1. Arm-in-arm, rather pleased with our bags of shopping, we cross the park. 2. The second-to-last bottle of red in the cellar turns out to b...