On Saturday afternoon, I suffered a touch of the melancholy. I felt listless and not sure what to do. I had hoovered the stairs. I had finished my book. There was nothing on the telly. Everyone was out, and the cat looked at me crossly. I spoke to Vicky on the phone. Then I went to bed early.
I slept well and dreamt vividly about my grandmother, Vicky's mum. She was alive and well and had a gold ring through her nose. She had an Interflora business under her stairs. I woke up feeling slightly better and stomped up to my allotment. I wondered if the plants there were as pleased to see me as I was to see them. Lots of muddy produce at this time of year. I made some chutney when I got home and a stodgy apple cake. I took it up to London yesterday to give to the Extinction Rebellion protesters. The apple cake made conversation difficult as it gummed up the teeth.
Josie
I have a fear of large plates of food these days. I'm sure there is a name for this condition. Queasiphobia perhaps? I have gone off lots of food lately, like broccoli, Waitrose quiche, and crisps. It's very odd. And the worst one is alcohol in any form. No G and T with nibbles at 6pm as I used to enjoy in an unquakerly fashion.
I am reading The Diary of a Bookseller by Shaun Bythell which has made me feel better about buying books from Amazon occasionally as apparently, they use small independent bookshops to source their secondhand copies of books. I had a lovely poetry book for my birthday called The River in the Sky by Clive James. It takes the form of one long poem and is described as taking him on a "grand tour of the fragile treasures of his life". Which is a bit like the play we did in the pub a couple of weeks ago.
Two songs at the choir yesterday made both Josie and me cry. I don't know why. One was about the trees reaching down into the dark earth, and the other was; The migration of birds, a nation of outstretched wings.
Vicky
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