Warm, showery day. Walk in the park with Leigh; very aware of pregnant women, of couples with babies in buggies. Held her hand. Green parrots unhappy with the wind.
My image for life is flour on a fork – plain white flour. Although I can’t see the particles, I know they are there. They have more friction than chalk powder, and seem happy to ascend into toppleable towers. Spooning flour into a bowl brings a sequence of unrepeatable icebergs. I’m sorry to lose each one. Bread follows. (But, if it’s bright white, this is processed flour.)
Mouse was fine while we were away, Polly says, round for coffee. She went in to see him twice. Like Christmas. Only one night with our bed all to himself. He’s grown a little, still growing. He lies on the carpet behind me like tabby roadkill. Legs all over – at least seven of them. Not a normal kitten, this one. Hardly a kitten any more.
Looked back at last month in here. What I wrote on December 17th about finishing the last book is wrong – just entirely wrong. I will try again when I can be bothered.