Leaves

Every leaf that falls in autumn is a little different from its neighbour. They each have their own story to tell - like the lines revealed on an open palm.

Over the last week, the tree friendly southern suburbs of Sheffield have been carpeted with leaves and sometimes you walk ankle deep along the pavements, listening to the leaves' crinkly soundtrack. The air has been still but yet there are nooks and crannies, corners and gateways where the autumn dead have drifted.

Yesterday, I raked and swept up a great pile of leaves in our garden then I decanted them into an old dustbin where they can gradually rot down for a year or so ready to enrich the soil. A virtuous circle perhaps.

"Leaves" is a word used more than its synonym - "departs" and on Thursday our decorators left after a two week stint of meticulous work - preparing, sanding, undercoating, coating and recoating. They have done a great job of our hallway, staircase and landing. Although five different young men and one woman contributed to the team effort, it was mostly down to Josh. He was with us every day from eight till four. Such a pleasant young man and a real grafter. When he left for the last time, we gave him a "thank you" card with some money in it

This is the very first time we have ever employed any decorators. Over the past forty five years we did it all ourselves. This has been a real treat in spite of the eye-watering price. 

Next will be new flooring and that might not be down till after Christmas. Maybe then I will share two or three photos of the refreshed area.

Another use of the word "leaves" relates to books. Every page is a new leaf. After the  decorators had gone, I turned the last leaves of a short novel  called "Seascraper" by Benjamin Wood.  

It had me enraptured - the style, the simplicity and a sense of otherworldliness. I won't say too much about it in case there's someone out there who intends to get it - like voracious reader Kelly in Arkansas for example.

But what I will say is that the main character is a young man who ekes out a living on a wide beach in north western England. He is a "shanker". He pulls his unnamed horse through shallows at low tide. Behind the horse is a net with a scraping implement - its simple purpose being to harvest shrimps. Some low tides are good but others are abysmal. 

Here's a short extract to give you a flavour:-

“The closer they get to Broughton, the more the sand dunes bunch together on the collar of the road. He'd wander out here as a lad, carefree, and tumble down the slopes for hours with kids from other towns he'd never see again. Back then, he wouldn't give much thought to smashed-up bottles that were dumped there, or the damage he could do an ankle treading in a burrow. He's forgotten that simplicity, that joy. It's true what Mr Acheson is saying about the world and all its noise, but most folk seem to carry on undaunted, just like children gaily sliding down a sand dune. When did he stop sliding for fear of broken glass and bloody knees?”

Reading this lovely little book was a like sipping a glass of good quality merlot. If you will excuse the maritime allusion, it warmed the cockles of my heart.