He noticed it when we were having supper. I hadn’t felt it till he mentioned it. It was the same last time, when the optician said I ought to get it checkedĀ  out. It could be a sign of high blood pressure, she said. And it was. And it is now. Not as high but climbing. He gets scared, edgy. I am more sanguine. Don’t let me be incapacitated, that’s all I ask. If it has to happen let it be total. Gone.

It won’t happen though. They’ve told me, all those soothsayers I used to go and see, that’ll live to an old age. My palm says it too, apparently. Not sure that I want this. But it is not in my gift to decide. At least that is how I feel at the moment.

Eleanor’s story came to an end on the radio this morning. I have been so moved by her. And am only half way through the book. Goodie. I love the way she is inching her way towards intimacy.

He said yes. He said he will come with me. It will be tight, but cosy. I am happy to forgo sun, for rest and ease and familiarity. I must be getting old. I’ll be reaching for those elasticated trousers soon.

I got drenched this morning. Still no sign of the street-fooders.

Her cat has had kittens. She is delighted. They’re all ginger, apparently, though she couldn’t recollect seeing any ginger toms about. We talked of the rain. The land needs it, she said. She sounds better, her voice is lighter, more animated. What a gift this connection is. Bless her. And bless you. So kind.