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My Sharona
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A day of two halves. The first was as it's been this last however long - sunk in a flaming pit of pain and despair, heaving myself through the hours, playing endless (losing) games of spider solitaire to stop myself thinking at any cost, not eating or getting dressed, just making a few sorties towards the kitchen but always returning to another quick game or twenty.

Finally, with Bloke, grudgingly made my way to the station and up to London by train, for Son's birthday. Drifted round the National Gallery, not giving a fuck about any of it, then YD phoned. She'd been with ED and they'd had a brilliant day, singing songs, reading and discussing poetry from a big old anthology in the day room, including Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold, a perfect poem for someone who grew up with the sounds of waves on a pebbly beach - it resonated with her and she was able to talk about it. Then they got on to some Shakespeare sonnets, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" and ED wants more Shakespeare. Oh hallelujah, she's back and the mighty weight that has been bearing down on me lifted and floated away. When I say 'back', I don't mean in any major way - the discussions they had were pretty simple, but for weeks and weeks and weeks, she has not been able to focus on anything for long enough to comment and suddenly she's listening to fucking poetry and making comments about it! Oh man.

Then I walked round the corner, straight into St George and the Dragon, a painting I used a lot with Year 8 when I was teaching as there's a great modern poem about it - I tell you, I have scrutinised prints of that painting with groups of thirty twelve year olds over many, many years and suddenly there was the original, painted seven hundred years ago right under my nose. Brilliant. Also happened across the Arnolfini Portrait so that was two I recognised out of far too many, but still cool. I haven't been into art for long enough not to be bowled over by the big hitters. There were other ones that I liked but not many - we were only there for an hour and it was all religious stuff that doesn't do it for me.

Then on to meet Son and hang about outside a tapas bar in Covent Garden, drinking coffee, exchanging birthday gifts (he was thrilled with his dachshund, loved it) and waiting for YD before going on for a meal in some diner Son likes. Fabulous. To know that my girl will be with us, able to chat and voice an opinion, express a need, is the best gift a person could ever have, and then spending the evening with the other two, hale and hearty and clever and funny and such good people. Amazing how a day can turn around.

And my day's walking came in at 11,702 steps. Go me.

Grateful for: a second chance; my beloved bad babies; walking round London feeling good; Bloke being right behind me through the rough and the smooth; yoga tomorrow

Sweet dreams xxx

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