Nine Feet Underground

Another start, though today I'm greeted by rain after a rubbish night's sleep, don't know if I was vocalizing. Perhaps not. The cleaner arrives, hotly followed by the bin men so I have to rush to take the non-fox proof rubbish bag out shortly after which the first carer of the day arrives. At times it seems that there are no hours of the day which aren't interrupted by an arrival or departure of one sort or another. It's going to be a busy working day, and, luckily, my access has been restored. This week's poem is rather different. It's not the use of words and the way they are ordered, more the emotional power of someone's memory. I don't think it's a favourite, but equally there is some echo or memory which evoked by the words. It's called 'Handbag' and it's by Ruth Fainlight: My mother's old leather handbag, crowded with letters she carried all through the war. The smell of my mother's handbag: mints and lipstick and Co...

Lazy start to the day, after an interrupted night.  The alarm was set for eight-fifteen anyway, but I think I didn't get out of bed until nearer half-past. What a devil! Sparked by a reminder of my mum's birthday next weekend, I went into a state of reflection about my life so far. I think I had some deep thoughts about what has happened, bad decisions, good decisions and my approach to life (in the past at least), but I'm still processing it. These thoughts may appear here, probably won't. If only I could transfer my thoughts directly here and then edit, before releasing.  I'm planning a lazy day with some minor chores and catching up with people. Let's see how that turns out.  Wa**ing to start off with.  After that I need to sit and read the papers to chill. Made lunch for myself as no one else has surfaced, yet. I'm going to return to the papers before getting a couple of minor admin chores out of the way.  I called my big sis for a chat mid-afternoon, so...