Thursday, December 04, 2008


I cannot lie. I am not doing so well. I don't want to use the D word but it creeps on in there sometimes and it's hard to find a way out. I don't like being the family policeman & I don't like that I never seem to have enough time to do my work (the work I love, the important stuff). At times like this I miss my Mamma, my English family, the Ashridge woods, Far Field, the hedgerows, even though the dogs are always here for me (I wish I were the person they seem to think I am). But I woke up this morning to an email from a lovely friend, someone who is extremely intuitive, maybe even psychic ("Nah" says Jumby, "she's just really smart and really kind") and the email included this line: "Sometimes I am sure you feel you are shouting over some crevice with only the sound of your own voice coming back." Yep. That's what it feels like. My friend Vivien (Vivien, you've been the star of my dreams for two nights in a row and last night you were the author of three brilliant books, inspiring jalousie enorme in moi!) friend Vivien and I used to call this feeling Melancholy, pronounced mah-lankily.

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