The mother of colds has gone – rather quickly, as it happens, considering how dramatic and volatile it was. In its wake, spectacularly aching muscles, but what does one expect? Things are as they are and I would perhaps say more were it not that Digi has said it all in her excellent post where she gives her take on what “recovery” might mean. We live as we are able and in this way it becomes possible to seize the day.
I met with two of my local writing friends today, to unblank the pages with our words. We have done this every week for many years now and it has become an extraordinarily precious (in the good sense) activity. I have lifted out poems from what I have written in these sessions. But quite often the words are shared only between the three of us, and it is good – intensely so. In honour of the birthday of one, I made rock cakes. The name does not do them justice as they melt in the mouth. Alongside, a pot of very strong coffee (half real, half decaf). I take my pleasures seriously.
A flurry of phonecalls from Daughter of Signs, as she has been flat-searching and found a place in Dalston going (relatively) cheap because, according to the agent, “no-one has any money now” – though it still costs a tidy sum. The upshot is that she will be moving there in May. It will be her first time living alone, but she will be near friends and she will have her piano, which is her constant companion these days as she is writing a musical.
I have just sneezed again. Time for a bath in Weleda pine bath milk, and some collected poems by Marina Tsvetayeva. Mr. Signs is watching The Apprentice. I think Sir Alan will have to do without my company tonight.