Reading Sheila Hancock's autobiography of her marriage to John Thaw "The Two of Us". A wonderful book but not the thing to read if you have a tendency to the ol' black dog.
They say one should never blog while drunk. Well, I am not drunk but my black furry chum is sitting right beside me right now. He'll be gone in the morning but it is pretty interesting for the moment.
Why on earth do I do this? It is right up there with listening to Joni Mitchell, what a daft cow I am at times. But the agony that flows from that woman's pen, the hopeless, ringing longing for her dead husband. I wept several times and that's not easy when reading a book is it? And memories of my losses just came rolling in like waves and, while I am nowhere near drowning, my ankles are quite soaked from all the paddling I have been doing this evening. Silly silly woman...
But listen, here is an extract from her diary that she inserts every so often in the chapters. This was shortly after John Thaw's death
And then, you know, it is curious. I could keep this in drafts, I have had the catharsis of writing it down (plus a good deal more that I have deleted - be glad for that btw) but I am pretty sure I will post this. And why is that? Why do I want to tell you? Why are you reading? I read Robin Hobb's diatribe against blogging the other day and a nasty taste it left behind it I can tell you. Check it out if you like, but it is not cheerful reading. Come to think of it neither is this really?
Back to yarny stuff tomorrow, today rather thanks to BST, we have lost an hour and it is rather later than I thought it might be. I can't afford another insomnia bout, I have an MG to pick up later. A good day ahead I think. And I will leave the talented Sheila Hancock for another evening. Love is a killing thing sometimes...but life's not worth a damn without it either.
ps
I didn't do the lights out thing, I was watching Beowulf and forgot.
They say one should never blog while drunk. Well, I am not drunk but my black furry chum is sitting right beside me right now. He'll be gone in the morning but it is pretty interesting for the moment.
Why on earth do I do this? It is right up there with listening to Joni Mitchell, what a daft cow I am at times. But the agony that flows from that woman's pen, the hopeless, ringing longing for her dead husband. I wept several times and that's not easy when reading a book is it? And memories of my losses just came rolling in like waves and, while I am nowhere near drowning, my ankles are quite soaked from all the paddling I have been doing this evening. Silly silly woman...
But listen, here is an extract from her diary that she inserts every so often in the chapters. This was shortly after John Thaw's death
...prowling around, looking for traces of him. I can still smell him but he has absolutely gone. Utter despair at his absence...I lie on the floor, crouch trying to stop the physical pain of it. I can't do anything without him, have a cup of tea, cook, it is all linked with him. I am talking to him as if he were there, but he is not, he's so not...
And then, you know, it is curious. I could keep this in drafts, I have had the catharsis of writing it down (plus a good deal more that I have deleted - be glad for that btw) but I am pretty sure I will post this. And why is that? Why do I want to tell you? Why are you reading? I read Robin Hobb's diatribe against blogging the other day and a nasty taste it left behind it I can tell you. Check it out if you like, but it is not cheerful reading. Come to think of it neither is this really?
Back to yarny stuff tomorrow, today rather thanks to BST, we have lost an hour and it is rather later than I thought it might be. I can't afford another insomnia bout, I have an MG to pick up later. A good day ahead I think. And I will leave the talented Sheila Hancock for another evening. Love is a killing thing sometimes...but life's not worth a damn without it either.
ps
I didn't do the lights out thing, I was watching Beowulf and forgot.
