He called himself wise the other day. And I agreed with him. He is. I benefit from his greater years. Fifteen more than I. Or is it me? I never know. He has that too, a better grounding in grammar. He would know. He does know. And I rely on him for so much. My rigid back is back. Symptoms of anxiety move around the body. I accept them and even try to embrace them. What are they trying to tell me? Meanwhile the war goes on and I try to put my little issues in perspective. I’ve an interview today and I’m nervous, inevitably. All will be well. People are generally good and warm and loving. And writing, though scary, is, when it is flowing, a lovely occupation. See, there is so much to be grateful for. Isn’t there?
