Closed up like a rusty hinge.

I sat down and tried to dig out from my keyboard whatever splinter was making me angry and frustrated. I couldn't. I have been trying to write a post for days. There are snippets of sorrow, of pain, of mistrust, of fear, flashes of red and orange anger and frustration at the whole why-me-why-you-why-any-of-us-ness of it all dotted about my screen. I have just swept them up and thrown them away. What is the point in hanging on to monday's worries? Let. It. Go.

How are you? I'm ok. Thank you for asking. Not great, not smiling as much as I would like but breathing and realising that I have no control whatsoever over the universe. None. I can only ask it politely to be a little kinder. But maybe that's a bit like asking a tree to be a bit less like a tree. Whatever. I'm done shouting.

But if I did have control over the universe; If I could find and operate my very own wormhole; If I could twist and turn space and time to my own ends; This is where I would like to be right now, or maybe in a couple of hours when the sun starts to sink into the sea. I'd like to be back on Rhodes in late October 2007, at the very tail end of the holiday season with cafe's and shops closing down for the winter, the normally packed streets quieter except for the occasional disgorging of cruise ships. When it was still warm without being stifling. Sitting at this pavement cafe eating baked aubergines and drinking Lip.tons tea almost exactly one year before we lost George. Before I was pregnant and before I knew about real pain and sorrow and the feirce tug of longing. Ray and I had been together since July, we were engaged already and he took me to Rhodes. Our engagementmoon. Before.



And I haven't peed on or near one single stick so far this cycle*. Not one.




*Somewhere in the middle of my cycle in case you were wondering