Quiet

Sometimes I don’t have much to say. And that is OK. This can be a quiet, empty space too. I sewed my alphabet yesterday and listened to fiction, one of which was a play based on the real life account of a young Scottish girl’s murder trial in 1857 where she was accused of poisoning her French lover with arsenic. It was marvellously, and shockingly, played (mostly for her ambiguous naivety) by Clare Grogan (was she in Gregory’s Girl or was she the one who sang Happy Birthday or both?).

We walked through The Avenue yesterday. It was nice to stroll with him. I love to hear him chatter about his past. It is everywhere, particularly in the sports grounds. A particular gate, a hill, a turning all set off sparks of memory in him. I don’t have this about anywhere, at least not as deep-rooted as he does.

I am sleeping longer but still I am tired. All this thinking, all this trying to understand how to be peaceful, acquiescent, accepting of my lot, this lot. Which after all, isn’t so bad. She has been in touch with offers of work. I am glad though I twitch with nerves about doing it well enough. She wouldn’t ask you if she didn’t like what you do, he says. No, she wouldn’t. She is rigorous and not afraid to say it like it is. Let is be so, be grateful, it is work and work that I am proud of, happy to do (when it goes well) and derive joy from. Thank you. I never forget, you know, how fortunate I am. I am stuck a little, in a habit of being blue. Let the sun shine in, lighten me. Lighten me up. Please.