In Which We Get Thistled

Yesterday I buried my first square. It was so cold I wished I'd remembered my scarf so I could wrap it round my face burka style with only my eyes peering out. Mark had brought his and so was chuffed that he looked like a ninja - the stripes only slightly dampening the effect. We started on our way up to the farm. I'd never got that far before so had stuffed dressing gown in pocket before leaving the house.

They've planted a new community woodland which we walked through. At the moment it's a field with hundreds of saplings which I'm sure will be more interesting once they're more than a foot high. This didn't stop Milly getting ridiculously excited to the point that sniffing became more complicated due to wagging her tail so hard her ass was nearly falling off. The choice was to exit via the stile and follow the path or leap the brook.

I have to say that this photo does not do it justice, it did look rather larger, especially when your legs are as short as mine. This was not helped by Mark (considerably longer legs) getting a wobble on when he reached the other side. Had there not been the ridiculously steep bank it would have been a doddle, but this now involved a running leap, a firm plant of feet, remembering to lean forwards during the descent, grabbing Mark's arm in the correct manner (as demonstrated by him), avoiding Milly who tends to want affection at inopportune moments.... It was all getting rather complicated. Flashbacks of being little and at St. Mary's Lighthouse with Gran and Grandad came flooding back - was this where the fear began? I was certainly brave then, perhaps even somewhat cocky. Out amongst all the rockpools, beautiful blue autumn sky and me telling Gran that I could definitely leap that far; "Just watch me". That sky may have been blue, but the sun was not warm. I spent the rest of time there with a freezing cold soggy bottom having made the jump and forgotten the 'lean forward on descent' technique.

The longer I lingered the harder it got. Dicky dancing on the spot, "Should I push off from one leg or two?"

"One Lizzy, you'll never make it with a broad jump."

A what?! - see, getting far too technical. "Where am I jumping from?"

"Do your run up and aim to plant your right foot on that mound there, push off and crouch FORWARDS when you come in. I'll have my arm out to get you. Make sure you grab on this way round so I can hold you."

I get confused just walking in a straight line. By this point I'd got myself in such a pickle that I was about to head off for the stile, tail between my legs, head lowered in defeat, but there were dressing gown promises refusing to be silent in my pocket. I turned away from Mark, composed myself and then went at full pelt straight at him. In my head I had the full Braveheart soundtrack roaring but don't think I did any yelling as I went for it. I flew over and landed smack into the bank on the other side, hands in the mud. Granted, not the elegant crossing we had discussed, but I was there and I'd done it!

As we walked on I kept asking Mark how I'd looked as I'd come hurtling towards him, had I looked cool? He said yes, bless him.

I thought that maybe my hands were warm with all the excitement. Having never succesfully surpassed such terrifying challenges before, maybe this was what all athletes faced during their cool down. But they were getting hotter and hotter and incredibly painful and spikey when I rubbed them together. I checked out the landing site. I'd landed in the only patch of thistles for miles around.

We buried the square in the ploughed earth and headed back for tea and biscuits, not holding hands because my prickles hurt.

The Rules

To some people dressing gowns mean lazy happy days, not to me. Dressing gowns signify non-clothes days, where the act of dressing is so inconceivably monumentous. They do not denote happy, or choosing to be sloth-like, but instead endurance and waiting for another day to be over and hoping that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be the day when I can advance towards clothes that are acceptable to be worn outside of my four walls. Dressing gowns tie you down.

Therefore dressing gowns are banned. Slouchy pjs, boyfriend's zippy top with chewed-by-dog-sleeve and big blue jumper are all acceptable replacements so do not fear, I shall be warm through these chilly winter evenings.

But what to do with the offensive item - bin it, burn it, charity shop it? None of that felt right. Binning was boring, nothing really final or fitting. Handing it over to the binmen, unless they were in disney type dress with trumpets sounding a fanfare, doesn't really have much flair. The neighbours wouldn't enjoy the burning and I think it might be toxic (cheap from Primark - possibly scarily flammable too and don't want to lose eyebrows). What if it's cursed? You just never know and I'd feel dreadful if it became the thing of urban legend.

I pondered.

Lots.

And then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Well it didn't. I don't think I've ever had one of those. It actually kind of wandered in and decided to make itself comfy. We had a bit natter, got on quite well and then came to the conclusion over tea and custard creams that this was a darned good plan.

Said dressing gown would be cut into little squares and buried, sunk, hung, posted, pinned, scattered or hurled in places that dressing gown days prevented me from reaching. A promise would be left behind with each and every piece. A vow to always look forward, never back, and to honour that time of fear and grit with laughter and bravery.

When needed these squares can be passed to those who witnessed the dressing gown days, to let them say goodbye, move forward and to make their promises too.

And so we begin...