I keep telling myself when I wake up each morning that this is the day . This is the day that I will move on. This is the day when everything will be fine again.
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I am emerging from the parallel universe that is called “illness”. Nothing is quite the same when you are ill. You try to be the person you normally are, but when you don’t recognise the person in the mirror(due to chalky wraith-like features), it is a bit undermining to that air of sang froid.
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A few moments ago I eventually calmed down from a paroxysm of … not laughter, but of bronchial wheezing and cough – spluttering.
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Christmas has disappeared; all that pizazz and cheeriness and homespun philosophy about the magic of a greater being are behind us. It is like one of these very important dreams that you have and you carry it around for days and it seems so real,then one day it has just disappeared from your consciousness as if it was never there. Such is the ephemeral nature of life.
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Spending three weeks in India just before Christmas felt wonderfully otherworldly.
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You have to keep the reins tight in this game. The moves are paramount. Your starting point is NOW. If you are feeling a tad underwhelmed (or just plain fed up) with where you are at right now as this year approaches its end then you start this game off with the ONE ALL IMPORTANT QUESTION.
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The outreaching tendrils of Christmas are being felt as we pass the landmark of Guy Fawkes. Stepping out of Selfridge’s on the evening of the fifth from our rooftop dining at Le Chalet we thought we were in a parallel Guy Fawkes as police vans filled with gun wielding officers dashed past us blue lights flashing. Was this another Gun Powder Plot? No just a normal London evening.
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Autumn is all too quickly disappearing . It is very swift of foot, promising so much lustrous colour and then moments later, just as the wash of colour is intensifying, hey presto the canvas of tawny tones is whipped away with a flutter of leaves in a draught of wind. There they lie, these leaves now muddied and dried out, the bane of the gardener or street sweeper. Where is their glory now? Nevertheless, the trees stand noble and stark somehow beautiful as they arabesque their outline against the sky; changed but not chastened.
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I answered my mobile phone two mornings ago, seeing it was Moira , and gaily answered saying “Hello Moira”. “This is Donald “, came the reply, and immediately I knew this was not good. Donald is her husband. He proceeded to tell me how she had had a massive heart attack the previous evening and although he had carried out CPR as well as then the emergency services, she had not responded.
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The restless energy of last week has coalesced into an arc of sublime stability.
