CuppaTea

When I get to the shops I will buy a litre of milk, a kilo of flour, half a dozen eggs, a tub of butter, a box of cocoa, a bag of sugar, and a punnet of strawberries, so I can bake a cake. A litre of milk, a kilo of flour, half a dozen eggs, a tub of butter, a box of cocoa, a bag of sugar, and a punnet of strawberries. I wonder if I will bump into anyone I know? Mum always bumps into someone - or half a dozen people - she knows, so shopping always takes longer, and she always forgets something. But I'm sure I won't forget anything. I will remember: a litre of milk, a kilo of flour, half a dozen eggs, a tub of butter, a box of cocoa, a bag of sugar, and a punnet of strawberries. After all, most of the ingredients will be in the same aisle, the baking aisle - flour, cocoa, and sugar - and most of the rest will be in the fridge section - milk, butter, and eggs. So there won't be any trouble remembering a litre of milk, a tub of butter, half a dozen eggs, a kilo of flour,

I have always loved libraries, and I have always loved my local library. As a child, the school library held wonders beyond imagining. It seemed the biggest room in the world (perhaps except for the school hall) and it was full of books! A few snug corners to curl up in, and friendly staff who always helped you borrow what you wanted. I have revisited that school library as an adult, and I must say, there was less magic there. Perhaps the magic lurked at my knee level, or hid under the bookshelves, only within reach of the smallest students. Invisible to adults. It seemed so much smaller! And yet, still filled with books! Still a wonderful place for many other children, just as it once was for me.

Yesterday I buried a dream. The dream had died a few weeks ago, but it took time to sort out some details, get my head and my heart prepared, and plan the funeral. Had the dream begun four years ago, or twenty-three years ago? Perhaps it began at both times, for dreams don't obey linear time like other things. Twenty-three years ago the seed was planted, twenty years ago I started to water it, fifteen years ago it started to sprout, but four years ago it started to blossom. Four years ago I started showing it to others. And the dream became important to people other than me. We were excited with its continued growth. But last year it started to wilt, and we couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. So many conversations, so many fears and possible causes for the damage, but by the time we figured it out it was too late. The leaves fell, and the branches became brittle in the last few months. I watered it with tears, but nothing changed, not for the better. Finally,

When I bought the pen, I had no idea how miserably it would fail me. It must have been a completely unremarkable day, the day I bought the pen of disappointment. On my list of errands buying a new pen may have been the highlight of the shopping trip. Few things have ever given me the same satisfaction as acquiring new stationery. Or it may have been the result of whim, or impulse, if the pen happened to be on special that day. Even through the pleasure of the moment, I would have considered the pen ordinary. I had no expectation of particular joy in using it, other than the short-term convenience of four colours in one casing, the convenience of flicking from one colour to the next to differentiate heading from subheading from notes and from quotes. A colour for each purpose, and a purpose for each colour. The pen may have sat on my bookshelf for a year or more before I finally used it. Such an innocuous item, the promised companion of future learning, of future thought. I had