I am reading, I'm loving the Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes series, and I re-read The Giver, and The Once and Future King, Ruskins lectures on Geology to a girls school and all sort of other things. I have even had my Mac fixed so there is not excuse, but I don't want to write about them.
I am sad. Sad would seep through the words and contaminate my beautiful books. It would sit there and sulk until I opened the book up again, months or years later and the sad would burst out full strength and push its way back. And I would be sad again. We can't have that.
Instead I will play Jacks like I was taught but only when the Baby is asleep (she is too small for jacks and I'm not about to share yet anyway) and I will make lists of things, things that make me happy, simple thing, free things, and I will push my heart up again through pure strength of will. And then I will write about books again.
The first on all my lists is Sunshine and warmth. Today, if the very fickle English sun favours me, I will walk in the sun, maybe I will take my computer and if the Baby behaves I will sit with a coffee in the sun and make a longer list. Then again a list with one is still very nice.
