I'm sitting on the back steps of my mother in laws garden. It was an effort to get here and I'm breathless, hammered by the virus I brought back from Spain, which I won't name as it's controversial enough. Either way, its a damn sight stronger than a cold and my body is out seeking anitivirals in sunlight and beesong.

I've been rather detached from socials these last few weeks, failing to see a point. The connections I've been wanting to make I haven't, despite plans. The most valuable relationships seem the ones right in front of me, and right now, it's with the self and cells as I try not to do battle with the weeds of this illness. I shook and shivered the whole way across the Bay of Biscay on a rocking ferry.

Landing at Plymouth I still had many stories of the road to tell but such is my current state I'm struggling to look backwards and only into this moment. I stared into England's greenery and broke my heart for the hundredth time knowing I was leaving again soon. The rain in this country turns everything fluorescent, especially when you drive under tunnels of oak. Buttercup washes Europe off her in puddles and me, hey, I wear my Aussie wellies aka flip flops to rush into Tesco to buy ready made soup because I'm craving comfort food, and my feet are momentarily washed with England's muck.

My mother in laws garden is stunning and full of roses and other plants I cannot name. She shouts at my sister in laws collie: 'not the dahlias, Willow!'. But collies cut their paths and cannot change them. You're best to plant dahlias to the left a little. I can't express how lovely it looks because my throats dry andy chest is heaving. Fucking COVID. She goes to stay at her boyfriend's in the caravan so she is sure she hasn't got it. Old folk don't last as long.

The sun comes out for a day and I let it soak into me, berate me like a ratchetty day nurse for being so poorly. The roses away in the wind. The birds are silly pretty, more soothing than a cockatoos craw. A pigeon coos like it's happy not to be made pie.

Geraniums I know, and foxgloves too, that ran wild over Europe whilst we travelled. I'm sorry to be back. But Dad's sicker than me and I must be leaving soon. Goodbye travel plans and foots free and loose on the earth plans. Goodbye mushroom foraging in Poland plans. Goodbye Northern Cale plans.

Fuck cancer. Flights are expensive. I breath in the warm air. That at least is free and full of hope.

Shut up sorry me. Shut up me who looks at her navel. Shut up sad me. Shut up brat me. Shut up regretful me.

Lay down me in the warm wet grass me. Damn I've had a good few months, me. Imagine your garden waiting for you back home in the Spring. Two Springs in a year and you're complaining? Ah, fuck complaining.