the west yorkshire sublime
A cold dry wind blows the dust around the collection of plant pots outside the kitchen door. The old cat can’t settle. His favourite chair keeps the draughts off but it’s not close enough to the radiator. I catch him trying to lean against a two-bar electric fire. Reasoned with on the subject, he creeps resentfully from room to room. I creep around my memories of winter in Holmfirth, three feet of snow outside another kitchen door, icicles on every cable & telephone wire. “I can’t find the car.” “I think we left it next to the telephone box.” “I can’t find the telephone box.” While I’m sentimentalising the West Yorkshire sublime, eight ring-necked parakeets arrive & gang around in the cherry tree. They’re down from the bitter air of Richmond park, looking to grift these soft-living suburbs.
Re-reading: The Tin Drum. Leafing through: Grigson, The Englishman’s Flora. On order: Wittgenstein, Remarks on Frazer’s “Golden Bough”; Miller, The Drama of Being a Child.