Thursday, 8 November 2012


Oh - the boy person is a just few centimetres short of me - if I stand up straight. I glanced, this morning, at the photo of him I took when he was in the plastic cot next to me in Birmingham maternity ward. Nearly fifteen years ago . . .Where does time go. Evaporates. I'm glad I keep a diary, deadly dull though it is, I can open a page from anytime in the last fifteen years and that day will come to life, the few scrawled words a window onto the few hours we spent walking, eating, laughing, crying - whatever.
Some days stand out; some are dully uniform. The lists may be addressed, or not; we will walk the dogs, music will be practiced, lunch eaten, some attempts to make money, a step closer to the finishing of one or more projects.
I must get out of my furry slippers and velour jog pants and further the day before it, like all the others, becomes another diary page.

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