Flickers of pleasure. I begin to mend though I am still much reduced. Work is coming through and I’m pleased but my confidence in my ability to meet deadlines wobbles me. I can do it. I can. I will. My dreams were dense and convoluted (no doubt as result of fitful sleeping). Damian Lewis was hugging me every time I cried while I thought that he had far more genuine reasons for grief. The soles of my shoes were coming away and I was due to do an impression of Cliff Richard for a talent show. Are you ready for it? a man asked me and I told him that I’d decided in the end to tell stories about meeting him rather than trying to sing like him. Then I was trying to pack all my things into bags and they were everywhere. And then I was in my favourite coffee shop in Oslo with a woman ( I used to love this place, I told her) and I ordered in Norwegian (I watched the man’s face change as I did so) though I couldn’t think of the word for Vegan. Small flickers of pleasure. As was seeing the lit up fishing boat as I walked this morning. Enough. I must work. And thank you.
