PARTIES Part I

Enough, said Bloggiana. I have had enough. Enough of these radiant autumn days where endless copper light glints on newly browning chestnut leaves, while mists hug the valley bottoms and the days dawn slow and amber. Enough, she said. Enough of the yellow wagtail who says good morning every day from under the sycamore while the smell of woodsmoke creeps into my nostrils and reminds me of days sweet and slow which I did not know I had lost. I am tired of it all, said Bloggiana, of the perfection of it, of the sheer Wordsworthian poignancy of it. Tired of waking up to the glow of it, tired of going to bed with its magic etched onto the carbon paper of my memory. I'm off, said Bloggiana, to London.

At the station platform, goodbyes are made, besides the hub of murmuring into mobile phones, to a chorus of the plip-plip of falling leaves. No rain, the only moisture a rising haze as the sun settles into its early morning task of lifting the dew; and the slightest hint of a tear in Bloggiana's daughter's eye as she wishes her mother godspeed. Bloggiana pulls her pashmina tight around her person and rattles off in the west coast pendolino southwards, she says, towards Parties.

For three whole days, we do not hear from Bloggiana. Her daughter and I pick apples which are falling by the dozen. We notice that the swallows are going, that the midges are enjoying this last gasp of summer, that there are roses still blooming in the hedgerows, that the grass continues to grow and the frogs to commit frog suicide on the lanes. We tootle back and forth to school held up at times by tractors and silage trailers or by hedgecutters or by men from the council armed with strimmers and face-masks who are still trying at this late stage in the year to hold back the wilderness. In the evenings, we draw the curtains against the longer nights and wonder if tomorrow will be even more sensationally lovely than today.

At last, she rings. I do not speak to her but she chats to her daughter and I can hear from the other side of the room that Bloggiana sounds elated and exhausted in equal measure. She will be back tomorrow, I am told. She has had a wonderful time, kicked up her heels, met scores of friends old and new, gone to bed inadmissibly late. Bloggiana’s daughter and I chew reflectively on our venison rissoles. In the morning we will collect her again from the station. We are looking forward to hearing all about it.