Bingo

There are so many coos at this farm in Denholm, seeming contented and restful undisturbed, they are very well looked after. Throughout forty-eight years of my life, I rarely if ever, experienced farming. Returning to the farmhouse I took of picture of a view I have taken numerous occasions before; rippling light reflected from the curve of the Borthwick water is bonnie to the sight, underneath clearer skies.

I feel blessed to have healed here at the farm, a restful and nurturing place, enabled by Charlie's tolerance to host this disturbed and troubled mind that from erratic occurrences of emotional dysregulation, I wrestle to calm day to day, knowing that darkness of those demanding exclusion to possess from inclusion, as "sharing" these sanctities, as if displaced validity, rewarded placement reverence.

Tonight I played bingo with the people of Borthwick valley, sat beside a neighbour and the wardens of the hall; I came close to winning with just one number (15) to be called, but Charlie had terrible luck, aghast and struggling to comprehend seven numbers still not yet marked on his bingo card. We enjoyed light refreshment, a bottle of white wine, and salted crisps, bought by ourselves.

There were problems understanding the called numbers, despite attached phrases such as "number nine doctors orders" and "legs eleven". To counter, the bingo caller met halfway between English and Scottish players by attempting to call with an Irish accent, but became a medley of accents, furthering confusion. He then called numbers using hand gestures, but the endeavour took too long.