The Word Cloud

The Dinner

No-one said much during the main course. I knew before serving the potatoes weren't ready and was disappointed to find the beef tough. I saw Mum struggling to chew and then discretely take out the meat out of her mouth and bury it under a cabbage leaf. Then there was a clang as a potato skidded out from under Dad's knife. He took the napkin from his lap and mopped the gravy from the front of his shirt.

"That was lovely," said Mum when she had done, although she had probably eaten only half her food. Dad agreed, still dabbing at his shirt. I took the plates away and got the crumble out of the oven, rhubarb bubbling nicely through the golden topping. I got the custard hot and took the desserts through. The mood lifted and soon both bowls were scraped clean. "Is there any more?" Mum asked.

It was like the time we lost him on the beach, both thinking he was safe with the other. Fluorescent lights leave no hiding place. Crowds hide possible abductors; so small a child disappears in an instant to be lost forever. Not to my child? All murdered children belong to someone. Which way to look first when every choice is wrong? Panic forces me through crowds, pushing aside trolleys and peering between legs while John runs up the escalator to look down from the mezzanine. He shakes his head, his face bleached of colour.
"Customer Services" looms. Please God someone has found him and handed him in like a lost purse. I arrive in time to hear a small, familiar voice say, 'It's all right. Don't worry. Mummy will come and find me.'

As the child approached her first birthday, it had become clear that for her, the usual milestones were nowhere in sight. They seemed unreachable, lost in the mystery of her illness.

Her second birthday came and went; still, she remained as she had been the year before. No movement; no desire to try. And yet there remained a little hope – a tiny spark of a prayer that ticked quietly inside her mother’s chest, waiting to be ignited into a full blown flame.

Time doubled over on itself, and the child turned four. Her mother’s silent will had evolved into a whisper, a gentle coaxing; the child’s instincts began to take over, replacing fear with curiosity.

The child placed both hands on the floor, levered herself upwards, and stood for the first time. She wobbled, unsure. Then, ever so slowly, toes pointing the way, those tentative first steps were taken. Finally.

(150 words)

The Tour

Cologne, with cathedral; bathroom fitted more than adequately.

St Moritz, attracts the dowdy rich; bathroom classily upmarket.

Zermatt to climb the Matterhorn, feet or funicular and cable car, and find a splendid bathroom; spa bath missing, but Jacuzzis, pool, steam room, sauna, sun-beds and fizz by the bottle ready to hand.

Dijon for mustard, snails... I don't remember beyond the snails; they even invaded the bathroom, which, other than them, was the best yet. Do they know the cost of mosaic tiles and real granite? If they didn't they do now.

Arrive home, tired, sticky, grubby... and sink into a bath that does have jets, and is surrounded by mosaic tiles, granite... and no snails. Good holiday? Remembered to stock up on fizz? Yes, and yes, but best of all, come home to a beautiful British bathroom. It was worth every penny, our bathroom.

(Flowers dead...)