Before turning my light out last night, I sent a late-night note to my friend, Nicola, who lives on the other side of the hill from me and whom I'd anticipated seeing and celebrating yesterday. . . (It was her birthday last week and she'd arranged a Sunday evening gathering in the park below her house; white lights, white food, white clothing. . . ).
I didn't get there in the end, despite the fact I'd been looking forward to it, had hunted out a white ensemble and done some white baking. In my e-, I wished her a Happy Birthday and then I added the (absurd) comment, 'my life's not my own at the moment; it's a wriggly creature, intent on not staying within the lines. . . '
I didn't get there in the end, despite the fact I'd been looking forward to it, had hunted out a white ensemble and done some white baking. In my e-, I wished her a Happy Birthday and then I added the (absurd) comment, 'my life's not my own at the moment; it's a wriggly creature, intent on not staying within the lines. . . '
My life's not my own? What a shocking thing to say. (I do know better - what on earth was I thinking?)
*
Nicola sent her post-party reply just after 2.00AM. She's a Sagittarius, thoughtfully succinct. . .
'Dear Claire
Thanks for your message.
Your life is always your own!
. . . "
Yes. Yes. And yes. Every step of the way, it is - and thank heaven and earth it is so; and people and plants, star dust and dust motes, fireflies and stinging wasps, knots and silk threads, onions and bunions and all else that's part of the mesh. . . We know these things, but from time to time need reminding. Thanks, N.
