I'm eating Lebanese rice (with vermicelli and pine nuts) and drinking a lovely glass of white Burgundy and considering, just for a moment, how very lucky I am. As you know, I am prone to magical thinking, but then again, so is Mary Oliver (see her poem below), but I am also practical and down to earth and sensible. I am afraid of the ephemeral nature of things (I said this today to the man that I think I might love, I said, I am afraid that things are ephemeral, I dare not believe them too wholly, and he said, in his sage-like best Jeremy Irons voice, "I understand." Which was just about the best bloody thing he could have said under the circumstances.) It's all so damn BIG, you know? One day you're happily miserable and minding your own business and feeling content with being a single woman with many dogs and the next you're bloody being propelled through space like Starman at a thousand miles an hour and you're thinking, what the actual fuck? It's like someone put an enormous plastic syringe in your brain (you know, the kind that administers antibiotic paste to sheep) and zhuzhed up all of its content so that your perception of the world fundamentally changed. And yes, I use italics for emphasis. What the fuck is that? "It's big." I said, trying not to make a big deal about it but trying at the same time to make sure he knew what I meant (I suck in real-to-real conversations; he's all honest and lovely and direct and I'm all middle class and mealy mouthed and hideous). It's as if we've been H-bombed and we can't get away. This huge mushroom cloud has appeared, full of goodness and sweetness and honesty and love and the most overwhelming sense that life is just going to get bloody better, and I'm staring at it, this thing I've always wanted, always prayed for, and I'm wondering a)what to do with it and b)whether it's about to go away. W the actual F?