Picture This

I want to show you a picture but I can't find the picture, the night black at the window, the cold-sounding wind in the chimney, I want to mention gooseberries and Ian Dury and to try to explain the endlessness of procrastination, and the calves chasing each other around the field, chasing and mounting, kicking up their heels in the yellow light, sickly and thundery around eight o'clock. Dusting the dresser and putting back each pebble, each cup and plate and shell, noticing the soothing. Parsley, mint and basil. I want to show you the smell of lovage as I weed round the beetroot, and the sound of two women talking but not the words as I earth up the potatoes. And memories of London in August four years ago, the toy people walking over the Millennium Bridge, and a man dressed as Salvador Dali outside Tate Modern.