Another day in the country. Fran's family are wonderful, kind and funny and wicked smart. A little too smart, actually, cultured and educated and travelled and knowledgeable, it's easy to feel intimidated around them. They know about Rothko paintings and Conrad's The Secret Agent, the names of trees and plants, how to build fires, where to go in America, and I can just pour pints of beer and talk about videogames that were good on the N64.
But in reality they were lovely and the only stress or expectation was in my own head.
In the morning we walked through the village down country lanes with long hedgerows and the distant shush of traffic, honesty boxes for the sale of sunflowers and giant yellow courgettes, and on, into hidden woods of oak and willow, then to the pub for pints (them) and OJ (me) and crisps (all round).
Back at the house we lunched on salads and cheeses in the garden, with coffee afterwards, slowly dwindling incense sticks warding off the wasps hovering just out of reach.
A fire in the metal fire pit as the sun went down, the flames leaping and the ash blowing in our faces, chatting and reading the zine Fran's sister had brought about surviving holidays when you're queer and depressed.
Then the rain pushing us indoors, to books and sketchbooks by the glow of lamplight, and final mugs of tea and glasses of port, depending on preference, and then one after another meandering up to bed.
Feeling over-socialised now, and tired, but happy, ready to sleep. Going to turn off the light, roll over, and snuggle in close to Fran.
I can do life. I can. I can.
No comments:
Post a Comment