Hens Dancing by Raffaella Barker

wait for it to happen to me.
    May 18th
    Nature has gone wild during my two days away, and this morning I saw three wild orchids among the many primroses on the roadside, a joyful gathering of flag irisesin a meadow and also a jay. It was dead, unfortunately, but I was nonetheless delighted to see it and add it to my bird count. So far I have heard more than I’ve seen, including cuckoos, woodpeckers and assorted owls. Since cranial osteopathy I am convinced that my senses have improved, and I am now much like the six-million-dollar man except in muscle power. It is as if I have been put through a car wash and had all the detritus scraped off everything. Even breathing has become a joy, with spring scents mingling and hitting me in the lungs. I am becoming a nose. I mean this in the perfume sense, not physically, thank God, although Giles told me the other day: ‘You’d be really pretty if your nose wasn’t so big, Mum.’
    This morning’s olfactory experience includes a hint of grass cutting, a suggestion of apple blossom, a waft of cow from the field and, best of all, an overriding scent of wet paint. David is finally at the decorating stage with my bathroom. With my new improved eyesight I can tell that I do not like the colour he is using, and despite his insistence to the contrary, I know it is not the one I chose. I wanted Plover’s Egg, and I think he has used Dead Mouse. He insists there is no such colour as Dead Mouse; I am sure there is, though. These colours prove their smartness by having eccentric, call-a-spade-a-spade names. There is String, Ox Blood, Cold Cream White and the enigmatic Dirt, but I wish they would be a little bolder and have Phlegm and Fungal Brown as well. AndI would especially like to be able to get hold of Eyeball White for the bathroom ceiling, which needs a blue-white tone to lift it a bit.
    May 20th
    Felix and Giles return. Charles rings the bell, and I open the door to one former husband, smirking slightly, and two piles of merchandising. ‘The way to a boy’s heart is via the shopping mall,’ I quip.
    Charles jangles his keys. ‘We had some time on our hands yesterday after the boys did well with an early reveille and run.’ He allows himself a flash of a smile as I gape in astonishment at this insight into quality time with Dad.
    Giles and Felix are not listening, but are burrowing in their shopping bags. Charles coughs self-effacingly and continues.
    â€˜They said they hadn’t any clothes, or trainers, and from what you sent with them it seemed true.’ A needle of resentment jabs at me. ‘Don’t criticise my packing,’ I hiss, a line so babyish I wish to bite off my tongue. The boys push past into the house and there is Charles’s car with the crown of Helena’s head just visible in the passenger seat. I turn to him in reproachful surprise.
    â€˜Oh, Charles, you should have bought her a little cushion while you were shopping.’
    He hardly pauses, but swipes right back as he marches to the car. ‘I’ll be in touch about next month: I thought I’d take the boys to Wimbledon, I’ve got tickets for centre court.’ Fifteen, Love to Charles. I slam the front door cursing, and am almost sent flying by huge, hugging boys.
    May 26th
    Thrilling sense of freedom caused by sitting on the train to London reading
Hello!
and being surrounded by other ladies, many of them quite antique, with packets of sandwiches and sensible shoes which say that they, like me, are on their way to the Chelsea Flower Show.
    I, however, do not have sensible shoes. By the time I have negotiated the tube as far as Sloane Square and lost half an hour in a delicious ribbon shop, I have two blisters and a throbbing big toe. Trailing an exquisite bundle of pink and yellow satin, which I plan to sew round the edge of a cardigan in the manner of top fashion houses this season, I head for the nearest shoe shop and arrange myself