Back to earth with a bump and a shiver – first published 24 October 2013

We were back in cold, grey, damp old England. No more sun. No more sandy beaches. No more watching the morning sky turn from inky blue to pink or the evening sky do the same thing in reverse. Now it was all post-holiday blues and piles of washing. It never ceases to amaze me how much dirty laundry can come tumbling out of a very small, very sparsely packed case.

24 October 2013

Getting the washing machine loaded and on was the first priority of the day. Once I’d sorted everything into little piles according to colour and fabric I stuffed the first and largest load, dark colours, into the machine. This was the point when I realised there was no detergent left, a tiny trickle came out of the upturned bottle into the soap drawer, maybe a thimble full. Oh poo!

So my next mission turned out to be writing a perfunctory shopping list and dashing up the Big Hill. The first thing I noticed when I got outside was how very cold it seemed. A week of thirty degree heat makes sixteen degrees seem positively icy. Maybe going away to get a little extra sun in the autumn isn’t as good an idea as I thought. I was swathed in scarves and a hat and had so many layers of jumpers on under my parka people were looking at me oddly. Then again, maybe they were just looking at me oddly because I’m odd.

The second thing I noticed was how colourful everything looked. After the stark black rock landscape of Lanzarote, the English grass seemed especially green, the autumn leaves and berries especially vivid when I went out into the garden to have a quick look around. Quick being the operative word because it was so cold. The only thing letting the show down was the sky. Instead of azure blue with fluffly white clouds we had grey with the odd hint of washed out powder blue, like an old pair of jeans that have been through the wash too many times. The world felt very surreal.

Fluffy the cat seems to have forgotten who we are. When we walked in the door last night she was curled up on the sofa and shot out into the dark as soon as she saw us. Then again, maybe she was just remembering the cat burglar, pork joint incident when we shooed her out of the house unceremoniously. CJ made us a coffee and we sank, gratefully onto the sofa. Within moments Fluffy was pawing at the French windows, meowing to be let back in. Rolling his eyes, CJ let her in and she jumped up onto his lap but, seconds later, she seemed to notice us again and, with a suspicious look, was scrabbling to get back out. This went on until CJ got sick of getting up and refused to let her back in. She’s been doing the same thing all day, tapping and scratching at the window and then deashing off as soon as she sees us. Honestly, I’m getting a bit of a complex about it.

During my brief foray into the icy wastes of the garden the colours of the dogwood leaves caught my eye, all golds, reds and deep maroons. I wonder what they’d make of that in Lanzarote? They don’t seem to have autumn colour, what with the lack of deciduous trees and shrubs. In the week I’ve been away the fatsia has produced flowers, pale balls of dainty, if rather nondescript, umbels and lightest green buds that make me think of giant, unripe blackberries.

The pansies and violas I bought in the summer are still going strong in the tubs, a little ragged round the edges and covered with a film of frosty looking dew. Unbelievably, the dancing ladies on the fuchsia are still pirouetting. In the front garden flowers have appeared on the choisya, adding scent to the autumn air and giving the last lazy bees something to do. It may not be the atrium of the Melia Salainas, garden of my dreams, but it is mine.

Oh well, I suppose things will settle back to normal soon enough, especially as it’s back to work tomorrow. Then again, I have my interview first thing so maybe not. Best get an early night then.

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