Along with Monday evenings warm breeze, solar rays act as suburban Wakefield’s current meteorological consorts. Through opened French doors which allow exposure to outside’s temperate airflow, my audio companions are cutlery clanking on crockery produced by neighbours dining alfresco, chirping garden birds and the distant rumble of tyres on the nearby M1.

There are other noises emanating into my domain via les portes ouverte, however I’m unable to state with any surety what their source might be. Consequently, I’m can’t speculate with any certainty the root cause of some of the attendant modulations.

For example, I can hear a distant neighing sound and hoof clatter, in association to frequent clacking noises, similar to an object skimming over a wooden surface. A strange amalgam of audio reverberations, indicating that perhaps within my close proximity there’s a couple of horses indulging in a game of table tennis.

A ludicrous notion, of course. These sounds most likely coming from total unrelated  events, such as a horse rider(s) trotting along East Ardsley Main Street simultaneously with neighbourhood children playing table tennis in their back gardens.


Outside, my view is a displeasing sight of overgrown lawn and garden borders; defiling views of what’s ordinarily an aesthetically pleasing horticultural spectacle. Unkempt grass, weeds and perennial plants the size of triffids ‘courtesy’ of recent heavy rain and sporadic sun burst, in association to my current lax maintenance, rendering jardin de la mere an eyesore of epic proportions.

A view fuelling frustrations at my inability to rectify the horticultural carbuncle until I receive a cardiologist go ahead. Adding to a joylessness that’s been a frequent suitor of mine for a while now. An emotion joining anger, bitterness and general disenchantment that’ve trapped me in a habitual loop of unfulfilment.


As I commence this paragraph, it’s now early Tuesday pm. Monday evening’s aforementioned unrelenting breeze and solar rays continue as suburban Wakefield’s meteorological consorts.

The reason I cut short yesterday’s essay a consequence of the shock encountered when a horse bobbed it’s head over my garden fence at 8.25 pm to ask for it’s pingpong ball back….. Going forward, perhaps I need to avoid my mum’s homemade mushroom ice cream. Unless, of course, she starts using shop bought ingredients instead of those sourced from the local woods.

Looking out on the still overgrown back garden, there’s possibly edible produce amongst the weeds and nettles taunting me from the position of safety until I get the cardiologists nod to exterminate them. I’d venture the greenery will be a damn sight more fit for consumption than the mushrooms that ‘graced’ the gelato lovingly constructed by Maggie Strachan.

You may think constructed is a strange adjective to use when describing the cooking process. However, I’ve oft mooted mother’s heavy and gut bloating cuisine is frequently influenced by techniques employed in the building industry.

For example, on Saturday I rendered the front bay window utilising last Friday’s leftover mashed potato. Tomorrow I’m hoping to build a dry stone wall with the bread she baked on Monday…… Well, that’s if f I can source a crane to lift it from the kitchen floor into the baked garden.

Suburbia, where the suburbs met Utopia.


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