Annalog

Because Christmas

and thus New Year fall mid week, we’re all going to be drowning in the holiday season, people are going away (hooray) and life will be a different shape except for those for whom it never is.  

I learned at nearly 13 that Christmas isn’t immovably wonderful which is probably why I feel so strongly about keeping the good bits fresh.  We say “don’t look back” but you do at Christmas, and in New Year, because if you have no memories you have no future – even if you are making memories for the first time this year.

I came out of Waterstones grinning from ear to ear, having seen all four of my favourite assistants in one go.  They are subject to some internal company rota, I see one or two at the most but they are all wonderful and it was a real pre Christmas boost.

As I emerged a woman backed into me and I said teasingly “Have you not got eyes in the back of your head?” and repeated it gently.  She laughed.  I was so proud that she laughed,

I went back to tell her – how lovely to make her laugh.  She said “I thought I would never laugh again,”  I asked why.  She said “Because my son was killed 48 hours ago.”  I asked what happened – it sounds like a stroke and for whatever reason it wasn’t picked up on fast enough – she said “I think it was because he was black, they thought he was drunk” – deteriorated and died.  I took her hands, I said how sorry I was very quietly and wished her peace.   

And I was very struck when a nothing if not positive friend remarked that this year, something is missing.  Well quite a lot is missing actually and the gap will not be plugged with elaborate meals and endless sweet stuff.   If you can afford it.  You have to believe in something,

even if it is only yourself.

This government is no better at communication that the last lot.   Sure, we’re in the financial cart for almost everything but there are better ways to introduce it to the beleaguered public than long , boring perorations.   Learn how to talk to people – in the stocking for the cabinet.  I mention this  (again) because it isn’t that they could do it better but they could package it better which would reduce the sting.

All I can remember about my Christmas stocking is that it was a wonderful knobbly surprise, which is what made it exciting.   The best thing in my stocking this Christmas would be peace – in Ukraine, Syria, Sudan and the list goes on.   I have learned to cherish peace, not just as the opposite of war – but as a state of mind.  

Yesterday a family up the road (ma, pa and “nearly 13” year old son) invited me to lunch.  The house shone, the food was lovely, the effort was generous.   Generosity goes in the stocking. And awareness and when to say “can’t do that any more “and withdraw for your own peace.

Ginny’s sister has an equally  particular nickname so I didn’t recognize her full name on the back of the cards she has begun to design and sell as part of recovery from a long and challenging marriage, three children and loss of self – self everything.  When I recognized  it, I wrote to her – She wrote back.  Worth jewels.  In the stocking.

All I recall about New Year was staying up  to see the New Year in  – which really meant listening to Big Ben on the then Home Service. My parents had a drink  – one drink, usually rum, the cheapest spirit – and I had a thimbleful with hot water and sugar.

This year has seen the failure of organized religion to offer the consolation we had thought to have from it, your religion or mine, the failure of theocracy to observe human decencies, to negotiate.

A Scottish neighbour who came to do me a kindness said the greatest failure was to cease to  talk – to talk across fear, stand off, difference – “because once that door is closed …” he said and shook his head. 

Whatever he has done or not done in Israel, you can’t deny that the chief US negotiator Anthony Blinken has worked at it.

We cannot know what efforts have been made in our names in a vast complicated state such as we live in.  We used to trust it but now we doubt it and doubt is a poor bedfellow.

So New Year is perhaps more important this year than often.  We need to believe  better is to come. 

So I shall light candles to that, and pray to all my gods, and for you who have walked the annalog walk for a long time.    

Back the week of 6 January 2025 and peace in your house.

Alison Uttley wrote a series of children’s books about Little Grey Rabbit, Squirrel and Hare.

They came in square pale grey slender hardbacks and my mother approved of the degree to which the animals were rendered cosy for children, in other words still recognizable as animals, for example, she remarked on Hare’s frock coat.    And it was Hare who proposed a toast  – “ old friends to meet, old wood to burn, old wine to drink.”   Which for some reason stuck with me. 

I could understand that you were supposed to keep friends so I could see that old friends would be important.  I couldn’t get my head round old wood.  Our wood (coal fires) came in small handy cords from the grocer.  I don’t remember having much of it to hand and if there was it was in the  coal hole, not piled up  – we never kept it long enough.  I learned later that old wood burns better .  And I knew nothing about wine,

except it featured in some stories, in glasses or special bottles.

Over time I learned it was a Scottish toast and it says a lot in a few words.  We think of catching up  at Christmas, hence the cards  if not the meeting.  But friendship is no more static than anything else.   Who you stay friends with, why and what changes is a book subject. 

Old wood to burn could also refer to the rubbish, the stuff you’re always promising yourself to deal with, the habits that one year you just can’t keep to – it’s not the same, you don’t want to pretend.  You make different arrangements, or none.

And I appreciate wine but I can’t tell you I have ever gone out vintage hunting except  for somebody else ( and only two of them).

But the toast lingered – like a sort of promise to the future.  That if you went back and met old friends , some of them might offer you something they couldn’t offer if they hadn’t known you when  …  and perhaps seen it just the same or totally differently or forgotten all about it and remembered something else.  Memory is as variable as the weather. 

And there is an edge to meeting old friends with whom you have not kept in regular contact.  Time passes, things happen, you may change, they may change .   And the hymn to keeping it all the same is unreliable.

The fact that “old wood to burn” comes next suggests to me that sometimes you can’t go back.  Whatever it is, it’s done and change cannot be ignored.  It has happened.  You may make one sentimental meeting but you feel you can’t make, indeed, don’t want another.  

And if I think of burning old stuff, I think of Pam the Painter, a world class exponent of “let’s just keep it in case” who went through files, her wardrobes, the kitchen shed at intervals this year and reported cheerfully how much better she felt  because she knew what she had and  -= most importantly – why she had kept it.   It was no longer “I can’t throw it away”, it was “do I need to keep it ?”

That business about “throwing everything out, clean sweep”

has mostly made me shy away.  You can’t.  You keep things for a variety of reasons including what I taught myself to ask “Am I ready to get rid of this? “   It took years to shed unsuccessful writing projects, no use to man or beast, nobody is going to give me a series at  80.    But the very pages resisted… till they didn’t.

I am the greatest exponent of keeping what you keep ie no logic in that except for you but what I have kept is reduced.  I do believe in getting rid and moving on.   I don’t want to leave a stuffed house that my executors have to rake through and will only dump when I am gone.  Burn the old wood, as you can.  That’s what it’s for, to give you space or light, to keep you warm.

Which leaves me with old wine to drink.  I think I would prefer nice wine to drink, cheaper, more accessible and a matter of personal taste – like everything else in this world. Here’s to you.   Or raise a glass to the past, and those no longer with you.  

I wrote last week “it’s not about presents.”   So what is it about ?    Mannie is a devout Christian and his Christmas is shaped by observance of

the Christian calendar.  His choice, dear man, good luck.

Wal’s Christmas is shaped by his not liking it, his partner loving it (for some questionable reasons) and the desire to give other people something they like even when he really doesn’t care for it.

My Christmas is  quiet – a quiet full of sounds I might miss in day to day: it’s about unscented candles, small pleasures and passionate gratitude – this year heightened by knowing how ill/or troubled other people are.  

The driver who came to collect me  for Moorfields ( OK so far) had a voice and a grin and came from the Ivory Coast

25 years ago.  I exclaimed without thinking “Cote d’Ivoire !” and he was so excited that I might speak even some French that he talked in both languages, all the way to the hospital.   It was wonderful, he spoke in French till I said something in English and then we went back to English, before he went into French again. The implied compliment of this is heady.

In the hospital, I saw a tall pretty woman with a walking stick decorated with flowers. 

  And when we saw each other again in the second waiting room – it’s staged into three – I told her, my friend had  a stick like that, she called |Maude.  “Why Maude ?” she asked.  So I explained it was really “merde” but she didn’t want to upset anybody, hence Maude, and I talked a little about her.  And she burst into tears.  I got up immediately and went to hold her hands .   She said  turning her head from me” I’m sorry, it’s just that people expect you to be well.  That’s what they want to hear and I know there is something wrong with my feet and my legs and it’s painful.  But they just want me to be all right.” 

So I said that my dear friend facing cerebral lupus told me that she spent a lot of time making other people feel better about her illness.  And I held her hands (I had noticed her feet and legs) and I made her promise to find somebody  to talk to about her pain – an old friend, the local vicar, her doctor – but not to just leave it, never mind what anybody else said.   I was called to the next bit and she promised.

On the strength of persuading  another to do it now, I took a deep breath and asked  my favourite shop assistant in Waterstones (we have had various private conversations) if she would like to come for tea or coffee

and she was delighted.   Then I got cold feet 24 hours later and went in to say “You didn’t think I was bothering you ?  That’s not what I meant …”  And she beamed and said “I’ll be in touch after New Year. Roll on 2025.”

Talking to Sim in Waitrose about books, a voice at my elbow asked about something I had said  which is how I met Mo – neither of these are real names.   Mo used to be a copywriter, she’s seriously interested in books, we took up floor space for some 15/20 minutes, I wrote things down and she asked questions.  We met twice  more round the fitments, till we were laughing.  “I am not pursuing you !” I protested.  “Nor me  !” she said laughing.  “I hope I haven’t bothered you…”

Her husband died  eight weeks ago.  I kissed her cheek and gave her my email.  She wrote yesterday.  Another date for  the New Year.

While yesterday, trying to get out of the West End of London, brought to standstill by demonstration,  I met a Neapolitan born psychotherapist, working at the University of Norwich

this is the cathedral

and we sat on a wall, she for whatever reason, me to rest the aged knees – and talked.  She told me she didn’t live in London but  comes up and would  be in touch.

So my Christmas  run up is so far  about going to the Selvedge Christmas Fair, a thing of wonder and colour (one of my  “observances”) and finding another door to open to communication.  And another.   And another.   

Long ago  one of the chants was “Not the Church and not the State/women will decide our fate” and we marched, sang and signed until a woman’s right to abortion was  legal.   I’d do it again.  Women’s reproductive rights is something I care passionately about.

So apparently did Michelle Obama which is why it was her theme when she appeared for the now defeated  Harris in  Wisconsin, a swing state the Democrats needed to carry to have a fighting chance.

  And  she and her party got it wrong. 

You will by now have heard all this but I am revisiting it  because that was the state.   A handsome and intelligent woman, Michelle Obama wore too much jewellery, a deeply unbecoming  hairdo and black.  Black has limited application in campaigning politics.  Even the most tasteful bling says  “We’re different” and even allowing for  how people love celebrity, she missed.  

We see

the image before we hear a word.  Human beings respond faster than you can imagine to non verbal information.  And when the speaker  said her piece, I thought she’d stop.  But  no.   She went on and on, whether  because it was on the monitor or  because she thought she’d bridge the gap by  sheer volume of words, I can’t imagine.  To watch was hard.

I’ve done a lot of public speaking.  You try to  guess your presenting image into the right place  but then, you “read the room.”  Humans do that – not the monitor.   And if you have to turn the spoken vehicle from what you thought you came to say  to something  else,  that is part of the skill.   Because in that crucial address there was no inclusion, no offer, nothing to make you feel if you had been there, that she came to speak to you.

So who cares ?

While nearer home  The Archbishop of Canterbury

resigned over the concealed abuse of children under the auspices of the Church of England, the presiding national religious body by a man, over 40  years, now dead. Some may say that the damage is done, though the beatings and sexual abuse live on in the bodies and minds of his victims who have campaigned for years to have the Church acknowledge its complicity and the cover up. 

40 years ago at least, a nurse whom I will call Kay came to see me with alopecia.  And that’s what she wanted to talk about  although her dysfunctional relationship with her parents soon became apparent.  I was just about to marry my second husband, the flat we had taken on was being decorated and that’s where  we suggested she stayed, so that she had time to get her breath back.  Which was fine until the silhouette of a man coming down the fire escape at the back fell across her , woke her from sleep

and she rang in terror.  My  husband (very nearly) told me to keep her on the phone while he drove up there and in due course they returned.  He told me  how the shadow had reminded her of her father who had abused her from the age of four.

It took time but Kay made it.   Being in touch diminished, you can’t live people’s lives for them – until she rang to tell us that her father  was applying to a theological college.  My husband rang, he was her first witness and he was ex Met.   My  police clearance was high but I was too well known at the time.  We were told among other things “We must forgive him.”

If the Church retains the right to  administer its own difficulties, then it must accept and understand that the only thing that would have stopped this hateful assailant  was a decision.   Decision though carries the impact of judgement. 

Oh  “judge not, lest ye be judged.”    

So the State uses too many words (going on and on and on is an illness on both sides of the Atlantic).  And the Church prays rather than  take a position even when children are abused.   Which leaves me asking – who cares ?  And before we decline into anarchy, the only constructive answer is  the individual.   I hope.

Hope by Jo Wade

it was a cold dark November day when I came home from school, about 10 or 12,

and asked my mother  what sort of a day she had had .  “Awful, thank you” she said.  “I spent all day waiting in for the gasman.”    On-line doesn’t very often do it for me.  I recently filled out all kinds of stuff  for Malwarebytes and was asked to prove who I am in yet another piece of kit which verifies (gevalt)  that I am indeed  who I say I am.

However last week the cats came back.  Not really In multiple, it only take one to do damage, and he frightened the robin to death.  I quite like cats, and I know it is the nature of the beast but it is your beast and  that’s why I don’t have one. 

And I don’t want them – and have had them – messing in the garden.  I have opted for plants and birds, the latter in short supply.

So  I found organic  cat repellant and I ordered it.   So far, so good.   Then I found an offer for something I really wanted. and did that too.  At that point I needed a rare second cup of coffee.  and then I found beeswax candles.

This may be very routine to you but it isn’t routine to me.   However I know you can go from here to Hai Phong looking for what you want – and not find it.  And here was what I wanted. 

I came home from lunch yesterday – having done three errands as well as eaten, not a moment too soon, procrastination truly being the thief of time  – to a discreetly screened package in the garden.   It was Silent Roar, scented with the urine of lions.  I just hope it works and gives felon felines  the sort of headache that stops them short and repels all boarders.

Of course what I would really  like is the lion to materialize as the cat gets into the garden, roar and shrink back magically into the pellet – but you can’t have everything,   Even on line.  So  I wrote to  the supplier Fitfit and said it arrived, in a sensible place, thank you –  which a human acknowledged with the words  “You’re welcome.” 

The  second offer is en route, emails, texts and all,  and I am currently experiencing  the 2024 version of my mother’s extended wait because not every delivery crew rings the bells, uses the knocker or speaks to the neighbours to see if they will take in the delivery.  All too many of them are thinking about the next stop before they dump the item on the front step, and the rate of casual theft round here  is rising.

So I have taken a view: I  will wait.

  I learned to wait, a long time ago and this is waiting in a good cause. I managed to delay the ironing yet again  ( I hate ironing)  but went through a drawer or two, read the articles I had  set aside from the paper  – and took delivery from the smallest agreeable Filipino of an offer on  firelighters, the first time I have ever used ebay.   Sensibly packed and marketing heaven – with a small box of matches in the bottom, how classy! 

Can I be this lucky tree times in a row? 

We shall see.  However then the computer had migraine and I used another long wait – till I was told how to temporarily fix it –  to do the aforementioned  ironing (grrrhh), and all sorts of other domestic trivia like relining drawers and reorganizing storage.  

This has resulted in a weekend quite a different shape from my usual one.  When I belted down to the supermarket much later than I usually go, the  Chinese lady who works on the sushi  bar (I hate sushi but we always speak/laugh/wave – these are people not automata) looked up taken aback:”But you usually come in in the morning !”   So I wagged my finger warningly and we both grinned.

I have breathed and prayed and been, and life has flowed round me as if I were a small rock and that sense of solidarity has been oddly comforting.  Human beings are creatures of habit, me too, and it is never bad to change the habit.   I think it’s called a learning curve.

For some reason – unexplained or even referenced

by omnipotent London Transport, the news media or word of mouth – the buses I use were up the creek yesterday. An agreeable teenager at the bus stop confirmed he could find nothing on his ‘phone, checked with the drivers of two other buses coming through better late than never, amid buses out of service, drawing blank. So I came home. not buying the card I thought I must get, or the bits and pieces at the supermarket … I made do and devoted the day to staying off the unresolved swollen ankle and allowing the bruised fingers further R&R.

Surprise, surprise, nothing on tv. Couldn’t think how to hold the book without using SP (sore paw), didn’t really want to read. Thought through tasks to be done as in “I could …” or “what about ?” and rejected them as compromising my stated goals.

The secret Puritan all would be malingerers expect to turn up at the door asking “And what do you think you’re doing ?” didn’t materialize and this time, I could account for myself. I was resting which is sometimes what you have to do.

What I did not expect was how busy my head would be. Oh yes, I sat and thought and dozed – and then as if released by a Pandora, other trains of thought started, some of this of course midwifed by media.

Please stop telling me this person or that person is for Trump or Harris.

We don’t have a vote in the US and the ballot won’t be decided (please God) by Elon Musk or VPutin or the Chinese operatives whose presence is probably more worrying but harder to turn into headlines. It will be decided by the American people , stuck in an electoral system open to abuse and less and less likely to turn up the best person for the job (not a new perception) – because they can’t raise the money to campaign. It will be as it is.

Then I thought about the Darlington Nursing Union, a group of nurses whose hospital an d whose union have toed the party line about a trans identified male colleague being allowed to share their changing room. And well done health secretary Wes Streeting for meeting with them.

I have not shared space with other women to change my clothes very often in my life and because of early exposure to medicine, might be more matter of fact about nudity than some. But changing my clothes at the end of a shift and having to contend with disagreeable commentary because your rights are currently more fashionable than mine ?

No thank you.

I wish I could reach Janice Turner (Times on Saturday) who has written the second of two stand out pieces (the first about Chris Kaba) to acknowledge her twice over for making me think. But though we have the most sophisticated communications systems , it is harder and harder to get through the modern bramble forests – when all you wanted to do was say thank you.

My response to fashion is mostly puzzlement and dismissal. Of 16 Things To Get You To Look Now there wasn’t one I would give house room. I may need clothes but they have to work for me and years ago I opted for style over craze – unless as occasionally happens – the latest thing happens to be just right for you.

The Badget has been praised, castigated, analysed and shrugged into existence. Another it will be as it is. I just wish every member of the current lot to understand that poor communication, the wrong tone and rigidity (received by the watching populace as smug and unthinking) was a major contribution to the unravelling of the Conservative Party as the public (us) received it.

And I know somebody who could really help them – beyond me.

I thought about looking back and looking forward and decided I preferred looking around, looking at where I am, even when it is unknown and might be uncomfortable. I counted my blessings again – and once more, sent every positive thought to friends unwell and friends bothered – and went off to drink another glass of water.

Note: This is without pictures – No picture function on the new computer – call me a fool! I will not talk about normal – but try again next week.

It’s been quite a two weeks,  having got through the disappointment – with myself as well as the specialist – of hearing half an expensive tale (I thought it would be a short cut – hah! -private medicine), the computer went where good computers go – and all that ensues, followed. 

Pam the Painter, of a sensitive disposition, rang sounding as upset as I have heard her, her house infested with mice. And if one more person mentions peanut butter – listen, they are mice, they eat what they eat and we hope it’s poisonous.   A funny, kind patient person, Pam was torn between inveighing against  pest control, being grateful for old friends and longing for the little swine to emigrate, so she could sleep.

A dear friend who has been living with his male partner in a folie a deux for many years emerged into the sunlight of simple pleasure  (except it’s never simple) to discover in dramatic terms what many in his circle already knew -that his erstwhile Significant Other, provoked, is a shout you down and lash out angry  bully – and in between gouts of tears, threatened suicide.   My  son broke up with his longtime  girlfriend.   And I fell over – no six inch heels, no swigs of  wine – uneven paving stone, thank you local council under any political party dominance, weight of body on smallest two fingers of left hand, bloods thinners making  bruising dramatic.

Like most right handed people I  am very right handed, I  take the left hand for granted but the last few days have been sobering – carrying, moving, shifting – heavens, wringing out a dishcloth, washing that side of my face.  I am being taught a new lesson in patience (see Edith Wharton whose poem on patience I clearly need to read again.)

When Rosemary (NHRN) arrived for coffee – drinks it black, is a former athlete, has perception and uses it – she looked at me, I looked at her and extended my swollen hand and she was on the telephone to her equally admirable husband almost before her bottom hit the kitchen chair.  He said one of the three A&E’s which are equidistant from me, ice pack and so on.   I could still move the fingers so I opted for the ice pack.  And Rosemary put her foot down because she can and I am a wuss about ice other than in a rare favourite drink (brandy and tonic).   

I have spent two afternoons reading  Tudor period fiction (thank you  CJ Sansom) with the strap on ice pack  Rosemary immediately ordered and far from feeling  cross,  I am grateful I was brought so swiftly to my senses. 

Son having dropped 10 kg weight on foot in gym (see annalog /when you can) went back to GP who referred him to clinic which can’t see him till 24 December, remembered a unused medical insurance, chased it up and after much to-ing and fro-ing, has an appointment next week, the second round at A&E (in desperation) having revealed what the first didn’t – two broken toes.   

Second and third rounds with unhappy (understatement) friend saw death recede, practicalities emerge and  the weight of denial for years and the chains of civil partnership prove sobering.

By this time  I was tempted to what we used to say at school when there was a run of wrong things – “God’s gone off me.”  But in the matter of temptation , I’d always say “be tempted, don’t fall.”

I didn’t break my fingers (thank you heaven).   My son came to supper and though tired and sobered by his emotional and physical travail, seemed like himself  – and in writing to say thank you, added to that impression (tyh).   When, on the day I fell,  I couldn’t open  a can of  soup and issued into the street saying aloud “I need a man !” , swanned up to the very young delivery man opposite, channelling all my mother’s formidable charm and said “Excuse me, I have hurt my hand, could you help me open this” and he beamed at me, and did.  Chicken soup of course. Thank you heaven.

Sorry ladies and gentlemen – no annalog because no computer – one of several things designed to me awake at night.

Back next week commencing 28th October 2024 – I’ll be here if you’ll be there.

It’s been

foot month.   I won’t bore you with mine but my son dropped a 10kg weight on his in the gym and although nobody can figure out how he didn’t break it, the contusion and bruising is considerable and he is signed off work for a month.   And champing at the bit.

There are a whole group of people who live by the most constructive kind of displacement therapy. 

They are always busy – work, other work, committed social lives, obligations, getting from a to b which is often more demanding than for some time (road works, rail works, flooding, increased traffic).  

My neighbour Helen (not her real name) is self employed and that’s feast or famine, do it while you can –  so the last three or four months have been scarcely time to breathe and visibly tired, over 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, one project begetting another, don’t wish to disappointment the client, keep going.

At last, she came to lunch (do try garlic puree

between the toast and cheese) and talked about the weekend.  Her husband (Red Beret, fitness teacher) had fallen on a running course in Denver and was finding recovery hard.  And they have a country place.  In hopeful innocence, I envisaged a quiet few days. But she went on to tell me what the next three or four days comprised.   Which is part of why I only ever had a boyfriend with a country place once – a second set of domestic and social responsibilities although the view from the loo is preferable  – if you have time to look.

And Wal was visiting Rhodes when his host had a stroke  – hospital, taxis (“I am now an expert on local buses” he told me proudly.  Don’t knock the achievement of that for a man who grew up with a chauffeur and a Rolls Royce), full scale family upset (naturally), shop, child, mother flew in, wife scared  twice  over (query  losing him and query what becomes of her).   This for a man who likes things organised, seeks control, worked like mad for years and years, and was looking forward to a quiet week and Lambros’s chips.

And Amy (see annalog/Amy and the Beast) who after major surgery is seeing some of her friends in a new way and finding dealing with it – in her own mind and with them – difficult – because she was always the go-to guy and as I have often found, it’s easier to fight for somebody else than yourself.

I am honoured that I can communicate with Amy (NHRN) both electronically and personally – and so could share with her my small but significant advance  in two halves – the first twenty years ago – the second last week.  And I saw a book recommended* which I shall suggest to her.

There is only so much you can say to a bright complicated man, especially if you are his mother but I hope he will use the time rather that fretting against it.   That really is pointless though most of us do it, from time to time. 

Helen and her husband will have to apply their combined and considerable wisdom to beginning to understand that time off enables rather than depletes.   You can be (old Met police phrase) so fit you’re edgy but there is no point if the level of use and pleasure in that use is as sad as a failed cake.

But the success story of the week is Wal who made a journey into a kind of physicality (hugs. tears, clinging – all across limited English and no Greek) and allowed himself to grieve through that for something long ago and deeply personal, to let others help him, even if only superficially.  Interestingly the tears he shed for himself released a rare bout of rage against noisy neighbour, and constipation.  “How interesting !” I exclaimed when he told me.  “Why ?” he asked so I said “The body can only do what it can do.  You were in a give give give situation and the bowel went into neutral short term, don’t need that, do the other stuff.  Happened to me once.”

“But you know” he said in conclusion” I think it did me a lot of good.”   I think so too. 

When you can …

• Wintering: the Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May