My mate C and her husband J drove, with their two daughters, to spend a weekend with us. I cannot decide whether that was the mark of real friendship (why else would you endure ten hours on appalling roads?), a curiosity to see where I lived and how (far flung, and hanging on white knuckled) or because they had a sudden urge for a road trip.
No matter. They came. And it was lovely. I was so pleased to see visitors I almost cried. Which would have added fuel to the she’sgoingroundthebend fire.
Though they got plenty of that whilst they were here anyway: plenty of fodder that would suggest I am pitched towards insanity, as if leaning into a stiff breeze, an exerted attempt not to succumb, not to topple right over.
We sit drinking wine as night tumbles upon us. It does that here. You think you’re safe: you think the light is going to hang around for much longer than it does. You think that the slow slide of sun from zenith to its bed somewhere over sand-smudged western horizons will take forever such is the song and dance it makes as it goes: all long fingered shadows tickling the dust whilst the clouds blush, shy witnesses to such careless caresses.
And then night collapses upon us. A blanket of inky blue punctured colander like above us by little holes of starry light which sputter one by one to fragile life.
The frogs start up then: guttural friendly croaking.
‘They’re telling me the rain is coming’, I tell C.
‘The frogs talk to you?’
‘Yes, and they say it’s going to rain soon’, I say.
‘You’ve lived here too long’.
Later I describe my blogging. My forays into cyberspace to link with what Rosie calls Pretend Friends.
C says, ‘That’s nice’. But I don’t think she understands.
I think she thinks I talk to amphibians and have imaginary friends.
I think she thinks that I am going mad.