Wilkie Collins

The lilies continue to captivate us. Small things.

I caught the tail end of Wilkie Collins’ short story ‘Who Killed Zebedee?’ yesterday morning when I went upstairs to prepare lunch. I’d heard an earlier instalment the week before. It was beautifully read by Ronald Pickup. I love the way Collins weaves a story. I believe he is considered as the pioneer of the detective novel. This one is a beauty. And there was a line in it that sparked my interest, particularly at this time. It was about a cook in the boarding house where the murder had taken place. She’d left afterwards, too perturbed, like the other domestic staff to stay on. And now she was ‘supporting herself by her needle’.

I have begun the second sampler, while I await the receipt of the other one, the not so tiny stitched one. It is slow going but I felt better about it yesterday, not so clumsy and ham-fisted. And it is very striking, well to me it is. The red thread against white. Gorgeous.

It was the first time that what I had been writing had made me cry. The tunnel of it is still dark. But I didn’t know that the grief was still present. Perhaps it never leaves. I will persevere today. Another 1,000 words. Just get it down. Work is quiet after all, may as well take the opportunity to concentrate and be focussed.

He was cock-a-hoop about the Supreme Court ruling yesterday.

I got soaked this morning walking. But it wasn’t unpleasant. I love the smell of the air in the rain. The kids were still out in force as were the emergency services. Kids walking home in the rain, coatless, arms bare. Two girls walked arm-in-arm, one skinny the other wider of beam, both in tight short mini skirts, their hair plastered to their heads.

Ho hum time to work. Coffee on first. Then.