dancing chillies

It is seven o'clock and Mr Badger gets up happy, ready to wield the paintbrush.

"I'm going to do three today! Really get ahead!" he sings. Mrs Badger, meanwhile, is feeling calm, looking forward to a day of quiet pottering.

They stain their lips on beetroot, apple, carrot and ginger juice and Mrs B sneaks in her dose of royal jelly on a lilliputian spoon. A New Day.

And then .... Disaster Strikes! Mr B has lost all the photographs of his work.

Treacle drops of espresso are pumped from the chrome machine into their bloodstream and the search is on.

It consists of the upturning every box from shoes to files to cd's, a lot of loud frustrated humming of Beethoven, the inspection the intestines of every computer cadaver, looking in the fridge (yes, Mrs B once left her wallet in the fridge), the frying pans and the cat flap.

A door is slammed, and harsh words are spoken to screens, wives, dvd burners, husbands and cats.

Mrs B goes for a run, stamping emphatically on the first fallen leaves. She punches the wood-fire filled air with the frustration at the loss of the images, but also (to be honest) the loss of her quiet day. She re-enters the home hoping it will all be over.

The light is dimming but the chaos is by no means at an end. Half a day wasted and still the kitchen is awhirr with flap and flounder.....

Mrs B makes pumpkin and butternut squash soup, lightly spicing it with cinnamon and ginger...good for the nerves. She drinks hers on the step directly from the bowl - an elongated tasting seasoned with gulps of air - and he later spoons his deliberately into his mouth at the table whilst scrabbling through iphoto.

He disappears. (Has a painting begun? The humming is quieter now....) She begins importing discs onto her ipod for their journey to Italy and reading a book on Tibetan meditation at the kitchen table....

But No, Mr Badger has been rummaging in the nether recesses of the hayloft, scratching at old garbage bags and now he descends, his frustration threefold. He is leaning over her, thrusting unmarked cd's into the mac and trying to download images of figs all over Alison Krauss who is struggling to morph from itunes to ipod.

And then, just as swiftly as it began, it stops. He decides to let it go. He walks up to the studio with total poise and prepares his still life. There is quiet, calm, a sense of reverence almost.

When he comes down for a cup of tea, the stems of twelve brushes knocking together like jazzer's sticks, Mr B's humour has been restored. His eyes are a different colour, the lines on his face smoothed by the balm of attention, his gait very sexy....

"I'm painting three dancing chiles" he proclaims.

and if he didn't have to finish the painting before dark Mrs B would have her Mister there and then.