Little Toot

Determined rippling into shore is how the tide presented itself this morning. As always on these overnight-rain soaked clear Autumn mornings - any kind of morning in fact - the little white motor boat (reminding me of Little Toot from the Sunday morning radio stories of childhood. I always prayed that particular story would be over before we had to leave for church) bravely sped back and forth from around the western headland, past the houses on the cliff and over to the North Shore. It ferried passengers to and from work, school, who knows where. And, also as usual, the cosmic yellow azalea bush on the cliff edge seemed shocked.

My morning has been an industrious one: hair washed, bills paid, emails replied to, facebook/pintarest/twitter updated, greens juiced and drunk. Now, like the dogs, I’ve slipped back to bed for an hour of gazing out to sea, reading Case Histories by Kate Atkinson and drinking green tea before meeting up with a friend for a good old catch up. He’s leaving for Spain soon. I will miss him and his green/hazel eyes.

I’m beginning to like facebook.