absolutelynotnormal

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“She left the hut and bright log fire at noon
And walked outside on crisp white winter snow
To find the iced slopes shadowed like the moon,
The wild wood desolate and bare below;
The red trees wet, adrift with icy flow,
The evergreens with glassy needled leaves;
A bloodstone veined red and white this view weaves.”

– Lynette Roberts, ‘Winter Walk’

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A pied wagtail scurries across the garage forecourt, bobbing its head busily as it goes.

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Tiny white flakes eddy and swirl in the air while snow is blown in dusty clouds from the top of the greenhouse. Pigeons jostle for a warmer position in the Leylandii.

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Like a showgirl, the frosty pavement shimmers under the streetlights, silver lamé to brighten up my morning.

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I discover that the French for pie chart is ‘camembert’ and resolve to use this at every opportunity!

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Queues of golden raindrops glimmer along the washing line against a backdrop of red berries and grey skies.

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A sudden flurry of wings outside the kitchen window draws my attention; a great tit pauses dramatically on the top of a garden cane, before fluttering away again.

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Looking up, the tops of the Scots pines explode into the sky like fireworks.

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Along the margins of the road, at all of the corners, is a thin line of squashed carrots, a timely reminder that this is Norfolk and it is winter.

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The crescent moon sits like a jewel on the sumptuous blue velvet of the pre-dawn sky.

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Pink smudges decorate the edges of the sky; the day clinging stubbornly to the last of its warmer temperatures.

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Two kites circle vigilantly in the skies above us, their wings flicking and twisting to maintain their height.

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Wind smashes against the building and periodic splatters of raindrops splash against the windows; it’s going to be a long day.

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As I walk under the outspread branches of the maple tree, three pigeons take flight overhead; a sudden shower of raindrops pelts me. Stupid pigeons!

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Revising Macbeth with my Year 11s, I left a quote on my board, “A little water clears us of this deed.” I come back later to find that someone has graffitied it with the words, “No, it doesn’t. Lol. ‘Out, damned spot'”

I am entertained.

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Gulls scream raucously and enthusiastically from the roof of the Sports Hall during line-up, their voices drowning out the party line.

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Thick mist wrapped tightly around the playing fields makes our building feel isolated; a small boat adrift in an endless sea of grey.

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A song thrush trills and warbles derisively from the hedge as I hurry past.

“Late again,” he seems to say.

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A squirrel bounds along, tail flying like a pennant behind it, sparrows flitter to and fro from the feeder to the hedgerow, and blackbirds splash in the puddles from last night’s rain. We’re all taking advantage of the bright morning sunshine.

It almost feels like spring is on the way.

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