I get consumed with a feeling of such dread. It is the dark. The dark, the wind and the rain. It was lashing at the windows as I prepared breakfast. I knew I had to go out in it. In that. He’d offered me his coat. A kindness, certainly but he would need it later and it would get drenched. So I used mine and wore my waterproofs and gilet underneath. I felt mammoth, unable to bend. Once out in it it wasn’t so bad. It never is. I avoided the Prom. I had to. It was too much, the wind was too strong. So I walked through the shadows of the town, feeling oppressed and enclosed. I found more decorations, though. The Treehouse, our local health food shop and café had some beautiful lights on all three floors. A luminous white in the dark. Lovely. And there was another tree in a B&B that reflected its multi-coloured lights into the windows of the church across the road. A spilling of colour. I wasn’t alone. I thought I would be. There was a man skulking in a shop doorway out of the wind eating a turkey sandwich. Morning, I said. Morning, he mumbled back, his mouth full of food. Other figures passed me. Both with hoods over their heads. Who walks at such a time and in such weather? I am clearly not alone. I then walked up over the Buarth. It is poorly lit up there. It brings me down further. And then all the cleaning to do. Sometimes I set myself too much. Often when I am low like this. I challenge my sadness. You don’t have to do it, he says. Tell them you can do it. But I can’t, if I give in now I will never take on challenges again. I need it and yet I don’t. Hard to explain. Stay at home with me, he says, still sleepy and warm from his bed. I must go out, I say. I must. A compunction. The rain stung my face. Biting and sharp. I just need to sit with it. Know it, make it familiar. The fear is an illusion. I am writing now. Just write. That is all. The fear is that of being found wanting. And yet, all I can do is what I can do. I missed walking my whole hour this morning. Just three-quarters. I didn’t feel as pushed, as stretched and I’d missed the open space of the Prom, the sea. That stretching out to somewhere else. Winter will pass, I know it. And just now the sky outside my window is fantastic. Azure blue with creamy yellow clouds. She is soon to bring the chair. My chair that she has upholstered. God knows how we are going to get it up the stairs again. He isn’t as strong as he was and I’ve never been so. I write this as a stream of consciousness. To see. To see what comes out. Can you prune geraniums? Anna Massey read a short story on Monday. I love her voice. I miss her. She passed away this year or was it last year? Such a voice. Treacle. Beautiful. I can hear his key in the lock. I must away and call her. She wasn’t at home last week. Maybe she has snow. I hope she is safe. The daylight has come. All will be well.
