We bought our first cut daffodils of the year today. A pound a bunch. And I will love them. If you can’t find the big things that will bring you joy find the little, she suggested. Yes. Flowers help, especially ones that you can watch unfold and open. I miss flowers. The florists here are run-of-the-mill ones, not like in Bath – no cornflowers or sweet peas. Such scents, how I long for them, sometimes. I was turning the radio on yesterday afternoon and I got a ghost of smell. It was the hyacinth that had been then a few days before. It had left its trace. What a nice thought. Do we do the same?

I woke grieving. I cannot help it. The tears come. It is always the way before I go to see her. I expect too much. I know this. And she is not to blame. This has been visited upon her. We do the best we can, she and I. Oh, but the hurt of it. I think of another who did it all right, by the book and still her son won’t see her. The tears are always near, waiting in her eyes. And yet he is not to blame either – he is surviving as best he can trying to avoid the jolts, the memories, the pain.

I was wrong about Larry Hagman’s mother in South Pacific wearing pyjamas, it was an outsize sailor suit. It was a clue yesterday in a crossword. Funny that. Synchronicity, she calls it.

Work now. Emails absorb time. But I need to do it, to neaten up, to order the unorderable. Breathe.