I’m out of temper this morning. I’m doing my best to master it but self-pity is mostly winning out. It shames me and I know it well. Things hurt that’s all and Sunday means some housework before I can settle down in here and work – meaning sew. And I’ve some letters to write, which I like doing but they too take me away from what I want to be doing. What a child, eh? Look at my life, so blessed, and the work is part of it. Accept more, he said, and expect less. How wise he is. I will try. I promise I will try.
More hard frost this morning. Will it be the last for a while? I walk out with my tentative steps – gingerly crossing the road onto the footpath, with my stick in hand. It looks beautiful. The glistening on the ground is beautiful, magical even. It twinkles and glitters, I am enraptured by it but also fearful. Ah, get a grip.
I heard his cough and then smelt the smoke from his cigarette through the open window in his bedroom. It’s amazing how far it travels. It’s an acrid smell, dirty at times. He doesn’t sound well, nor does he look it. We see him rarely these stay-at-home days.