Blood Amber

I was in the shop today but Tuesdays are always quiet, especially at this time of the year.  I opened a little later than usual because I had to deal with a leaky toilet in our downstairs bathroom.  I’m no plumber but Roly from next door came round and did something with a reel of what looked like sticking plaster.  I gave him some of my homemade gooseberry jam which seemed to please him immeasurably; if only all men were so easy to satisfy!

 

The shipment of oils came in from the place I discovered in the Cotswolds; I am always excited when new products come in and these oils are particularly intriguing and beautifully packaged.  There is one called Blood Amber and another called Hymn to Prosperine; all of them are deliciously blended and I probably reek like a *****’s handbag today because I dabbed all of them up and down my arms to test!  The little bottles are coloured glass with pewter stoppers in a kind of Moroccan style; I am a sucker for such details and they remind me of alchemist’s potions.  Not cheap but they make a beautiful display and Millie already bought a couple of them when she came in this afternoon to stock up on Althaea leaves.  She chose the heady blend of opium and oleander called Poisoned Apple.

 

I started reading a new book on lucid dreaming but some of the exercises seem ludicrous.  There is one where you are supposed to leave the house wearing something outrageously inappropriate in order to stimulate your mind in readiness for the night.  Well, I do that every day so I guess I can tick that chore off my list!  I’ve been keeping a dream journal for years so that’s another thing on the list I can count as done.  Lucid dreams, for those who are unfamiliar with the idea, are those dreams where you are actually aware that you are dreaming and can manipulate your dreams at whim; rather like interactive TV.  I keep trying to conjure up George Clooney every night but all I get are anxiety dreams where I’m trying to pack too many things in to a tiny suitcase!

 

Janie brought in some of her wind-chimes made from kitchen utensils.  I told her I’d try them to see but I have to admit they’re far from melodic.  The clanking of knives and forks is not my idea of peaceful tranquility.  I do like the old-fashioned way they look, though.  The bone-handled knives remind me of my grandmother’s house; her Formica kitchen and the peculiar bleach-stick that she kept in the plug-hole of her sink.  I haven’t seen those things for decades but I can remember the smell.  They probably went out with fly-paper and mothballs.

 

I’ve opened one of the boxes.  The diaries are arranged by year and the one on top is 1977.  It is thinner than the others.  I looked at the inside cover and there are Abba stickers, a weekly season ticket for Blackpool pier and a Silver Jubilee ribbon.  Oliver was just sixteen when he wrote that diary.  I flicked through the pages but didn’t read anything yet.  There are lots of newspaper clippings, postcards and sketches fastened to the pages; it’s almost more of a scrapbook than a typical diary.  Why am I so afraid to start reading?

 

BarmyCow BarmyCow
51-55, F
May 8, 2012