Familiar in the unfamiliar

Weather-wise I think we can forget the past week but at least the wind has finally dropped. The Marin is not a gentle breeze to put it mildly; miraculously the serre stayed put – my neighbours’ blew away the last time it came through. Still, there’s a plus side to staying indoors – I’ve been lucky enough to have Callum to myself and had time to focus on what Denis calls ‘my micro enterprise‘. It’s a new career path but you’re never too old to change direction. The downstairs bedroom that kept Mumo comfortable has become my storage unit because there’s a leak in the garage roof and it’s too wet for Cal to get up there and fix it. Mind you, we did have a dry day yesterday which allowed me to clear the potager so we can start planting the summer salad stuff – I’ve put my foot down about spring onions though, we had so many last year the freezer still has bags of them in its depths.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss Mumo, especially to talk to but I have my son who apart from being brutally honest at times, is an amazing listener. One such conversation last weekend brought up the subject of my drinking. Too much he told me; he remembered I’d done the same thing after his dad died and it left him traumatised. I know, a 59 year old woman taking advice from a 26 year old but then he has Tony’s sensible calm genes – albeit in our son’s words he has his mother’s crazy ones too. So apart from a humdinger of a night with friends Bruce and Suzy up the road yesterday, I’ve stuck to sobriety and feel much better for it. That is except for the broken sleep due to the amount of water consumed. My counsellor is off to London tomorrow although just for the day – a health certificate is needed for his visa back to Oz. I don’t think tuberculosis is running rife down here but hey. As much as I love him, he needs to go back to his familiar and I know he misses his friends.

Getting back to normality hasn’t been all that difficult although I have added a few other changes to my repertoire so to speak. I went over to the library in St-Hilaire on Friday before stopping by for tea with one of Mumo’s good friends. I’ve only ever visited Didier’s little book nook once but I promised him after the funeral that I would pop in. His library by the way is one of the two that will receive the donations many of you very generously made on behalf of our mum. Anyway, I came away with a couple of tomes all about French history, in French, which are now glaring at me over the kitchen island. I can’t remember the last time I was given a library card but I didn’t want to leave empty-handed and Didier waved the 5 euro subscription charge. Driving back home that afternoon, I stopped to take a photo of the Pyrenees – I must have taken a hundred snaps of the impressive mountain range over the years but the familiarity of the view was somehow settling.

And I am beginning to feel more settled. Since Mumo’s cancer diagnosis last Autumn, life has been anything but, yet experience teaches us about how we choose to deal with the afterwards. Put the bottle away for starters. I’m lucky enough to live on this beautiful property in South-West France surrounded by nature, have the chance to try my hand at something new and for now, my son next door. April is just around the corner and what the wind didn’t get, is covering the trees in colour. It’s still peeing down out there so the woofers are slouched inelegantly across sofas, considering their former residence was in London they are awfully picky about the weather and I’m writing this here blog. Familiarity is a great therapist…

“Familiarity breeds content” (Stephen Sondheim)

the calm of Callum (mine’s the cup of tea)

A time best shared

I made a mattress cover. Sounds daft but I was ridiculously pleased with myself, mainly because I’d managed to use the sewing machine without breaking it. Okay so I did snap the needle mid-seam when it ran over a forgotten pin but using the dreaded contraption without Mumo’s guidance was a first. If I’m honest, life without her hasn’t sunk in yet – everything seems to be carrying on as normal even if it’s anything but. For most of last week, the only residents in the house were me and brother Simon; both of us busy sorting out funeral arrangements and legal stuff. It’s not as though the family home was constantly full of Collins; most of the time it was just Mumo and me but somehow the place echoes with emptiness. The arrival of nephew Louis and niece Kate this morning along with Cal who had been visiting his other grandmother, has however, helped lift the gloom and with the rest of the clan descending tomorrow, the coming days will be easier to bear.

Mumo used to say that she preferred her grand-children because her own kids always argued but when it came to family fortitude, us lot would always stick together. As we sat on Mumo’s bed last weekend, going through her bits of bling and mercifully tidy wardrobe, sister Bong and I reminisced over the pieces. We don’t often talk so sharing memories was a nice way to reconnect especially as she remembered far more than I me. I didn’t take much as I tend to lose jewellery on a regular basis but there was one pendant, a Cowrie (Mumo loved Cowrie shells), that I recall her wearing in Kenya.

Recollecting happier times has stretched further than the family bonds. Having been tasked with sending out emails and making phone calls to Mumo’s friends, everyone has had their own special memories of our mum. Right now, in the main house, Simon, Callum and Louis are poring of photographs for the service and there’s a lot of laughter added to the process. So much nostalgia held in those album pockets. I can’t say I haven’t cried, I’ve sobbed bucket loads – weirdly mostly when I’m doing the ironing but as long as I keep busy, I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m whizzing through my furniture renovations to the point where I’m going to have to find somewhere to put all of it so I can photograph my babies and sell them. The workshop keeps me calm – my safe space unless I’m running up those hills. And I finished the tableau for the signpost under the corner wall – my version of Spring. Mumo said I’d put just about every colour of the rainbow on canvas. Thankfully, Denis has encased it between two sheets of plastic because March so far is rather windy and wet. Good for the garden though and my cauliflowers.

The next few days are going to be the tough ones as we say good-bye to Mumo on Tuesday before she is laid to rest at L’Horte. On behalf of all the Collins clan, I would like to say thank you for all the wonderful reminders of just how incredible our Mumo was. I only wish she’s told me where she kept the spare sewing machine needles…

“Say not in grief that she is no more, but say in thankfulness that she was” ( Hebrew proverb)

Colour me happy

Oddly, considering they were my two worst subjects at school, I was back in my happy place last week painting and sewing. Actually, maths and chemistry would be further down the list but then Mrs Longman the latter’s teacher always terrified me. Anyway, as I said, I’m back in Soph serenity land swiping my brush across the canvas and making velvet chair cushions. Mind you, a staple gun is so much quicker than a needle and thread ahem. And, despite the neck-ache that comes with running a roller across its ceiling, my bathroom is now finished – Callum said the colour reminded him of a dental surgery but I think minty green gives the space a bit of Zen.

Speaking of palette choices, Denis and I went over to the piscine shop mid-week to pick out the right hue for the liner. Naturally, any decision over which would look best in the pool’s depths has to be made by all four of us siblings but Moth’s ‘what about the beige’ option had me putting my flipper down. The word itself sounds dull although my son did point out that the water would still appear blue – it’s a chemistry thing (yawn). We’ve ended up agreeing on a sort of turquoise colour which, apart from anything else, matches the stairs.

One certainly couldn’t say my life has been devoid of colour especially when you add Arry into the mix and Friday marked our 9 year anniversary together. Yup, that what was supposed to be a foster pup back in 2015 is still hogging the bed covers. A little grey round the edges these days but always a bumbling ball of sunshine. And with Spring around the corner, we have been blessed with the rays from above which, after a couple of drizzly downpours, has brought out the blooms. From daffodils, cherry blossom, magnolia and marguerites to little rose buds and yes, another cauliflower, the garden is getting ready for the best of seasons. And when it comes to lifting the soul, there’s nothing better than a swish from Mother Nature’s paintbrush. Hey, its March next week!…

“The best colour in the whole world is the one that looks good on you.” (Coco Chanel)

Sizing up February

Considering it’s the shortest month of the year and we’ve only just got through the first week of it, why does February feel so interminably long? One can’t even blame the weather; the predicted snow fall this weekend never arrived and although one wakes most mornings to a covering of frost, the afternoons are in double digit degrees. Maybe the mood dump is down to the unpredictability of being not quite out of winter yet – there’s always a fear that anything you start outside may well be under several centimetres of the white stuff the next day. Still, on the plus side, the dawn runs are simply serene. I can see where I’m going for a start now that the sun gets up a little earlier and the terre has turned rock hard what with the morning chill.

It’s not like we haven’t been busy here either although there was a slight hiatus mid-week when Callum came down with a tummy bug which meant 48 hours stuck in a bathroom, Louis then changing places as soon as his cousin recovered. Luckily, I managed to avoid the queue – I’ve had enough to do sorting out tax stuff for my apartment in Montpelier. The French impôt system is, let’s just say, migraine-inducing. So in order to save the yearly search for a document I don’t remember seeing or one I did and just filed in some dusty corner of a kitchen cupboard, I’m going to sell the place.

Speaking of selling, I’ve been busy photographing all my finished bits of furniture so they can be put online – Callum has promised to sort that out and bring me in some centimes. And of course, having cleared a small part of the workshop, I found a few more sorry souls to fiddle around with. One is a really rather lovely Gothic-style chair which I’m going to keep for myself – Dracula is my favourite book. Restoring such a beautiful piece of history isn’t the only reason why I’ll be garage-side for a while, tomorrow I say goodbye to Giselle as she returns to Toyota and I get a healthy bump to my bank account. As much as I love her speed, I just don’t use her that often and I’m always nervous of getting her pranged (the gate has been behaving of late). There’s enough cars and vans in the driveway for me to use until I find something more suited to dog hair and dirt tracks.

In the meantime, there are some garden jobs that have to be done when one isn’t wielding sanding paper and washing copious amounts of dust down the shower drain- the potager has to be emptied and then turned over before the new season plantings go in. I have been reliably informed that my woeful excuse for winter veggies is not my fault, apparently everyone round here has had a problem with ‘size’. Ergo, all my new seedlings are going to stay in the serre until the month is out. Let’s hope the pleasantly smelling bay leaf and pepper deterrent keeps the ‘dormice’ (Denis also has a problem with sizing rodents) out of there til then. How long is it until Spring?…

“February is just plain malicious. It knows your defences are down.” (Katherine Paterson)

Furry moonbeams and ruffled feathers

“Can you see the moon?” my sister Bong asked me as we drove back from Toulouse airport on Monday evening. I did remind her that I was in control of a moving vehicle in rush hour so best keep my eyes straight ahead but I did take the occasional glance. I did get a much better view up on my terrace after dinner – the Wolf Moon in all its glorious orbness. And, being of the superstitious sort, I Googled. Apparently such lunes signify ‘renewal, emotional depth and balance inviting us to reconnect with our inner strength, reflect on our past and set intentions for the future’. Considering I spent the first half of the week doing a passable impression of an ostrich – head in the ground and kicking out at everyone and the second half, as Denis put it, resembling a hyperactive magpie (the comment directed more at my white shirt tails under a black jumper), I haven’t done very well in the spiritual growth department.

I suppose part of the reason for my waxing and wanings is having family here. Don’t get me wrong, I adore them but when you’re used to only seeing your sibs during occasional holiday visits and you’ve gotten used to it just being you and your mum, it’s difficult to well, share. Selfish I know so I’ve had to slap myself a few times. Suddenly there is someone else doing the grocery shop, something I’ve always done and the daily task of organising the washing is no longer mine. I am no longer in charge of the cooking however, a merciful blessing as is being able to get on with my list of things yet unfinished without having to worry about who’s looking in on our Mumo. Ergo, the change from big bird in a hole to a busy oiseau.

On the subject of avians, the cold snap we were promised was just that so their garden feeders have been well-stocked. Mind you, the icy temperatures have disappeared as quickly as they plunged and my towels are currently drying out in the abnormally warm winter sun. Naturally, being that it is still January, most of the garden is in shadow by mid-afternoon but that hasn’t stopped big brother Simon from trawling his bench across the acreage to catch whatever rays are still available.

And speaking of rays, Arry was back having laser treatment again at the vet on Tuesday. My idiot Shepherd reignited the injury in his front right leg, no doubt as a result of hurtling himself across the frozen ground chasing deer on our morning runs. The dog doc suggested we try hydrotherapy in his next session to which I informed her that I have had a lot of experience with Arry and aquatics so she might want to wear ear protection. He may be short in the brain cell department and missing any gear between Park and 5th but when you need a few moonbeams, he and the other woofers are right there. Usually hogging the bed but always there. And family. All the inner strength you need. Right here in Rouffiac…

“In time of test, family is best.” (Burmese Proverb)

Old habits, no resolution

When one should take down the Christmas decoration caused a minor dispute between me and Denis last week. As far as I’m concerned, everything comes down after the New Year comes in – after all, tired tinsel and flat fairy lights don’t invite thoughts of fresh starts and positivity but my man thinks Papa Nöel and his gang should stay in place until the Mayor decides to take down the village luminosity. Considering the lot stayed up until mid-February last year, absolutely no way Monsieur. So for some reason known to no-one, we have agreed on January 15th although only the top corner wall’s display is still intact as is the main house’s Christmas tree but that’ll be a distant memory by tomorrow afternoon. Twelfth day and all that.

It’s not that I’m being a spoilsport about ‘ho ho ho’ holiday traditions, I just have my own practices. Now that most of the family have flown away save my nephew Louis who I never want to go, there’s no reason to keep replacing batteries and constantly rescue tinsel out of Alice’s jaws. It’s the first month of a new year and there’s much to do whilst the weather is miserable. We’ve already made a start in clearing up the garage and the main house’s fridge – the Collins’ have a habit of putting new stuff in front of old stuff and then only throwing away what they can see. Several mattresses sans bed frames have been uncovered behind unhinged doors from where who knows and brandy butter only lasts so long no matter how much alcohol was added. I doubt very much that any of my siblings or their progeny have made any resolutions to change their ways or their preferred tipples judging by the amount of bottles that went into the recycling yesterday. Louis, Denis and I contributed a fair number after the two of them spent an entire evening eating pizza over endless games of drafts whilst I wrestled with one of those wooden puzzles that doesn’t have instructions and is supposed to end up as a miniature vault. It didn’t.

I don’t suppose it bodes well to fail at the first challenge of the new year but list in hand and hopefully slightly better organised, I would like to hope I’m ready for what 2025 might throw at me. Or better still, gift me. And speaking of making resolutions as many feel they should, I haven’t. I did suggest to Mumo that I should be less sensitive to what people say about me and just do my own thing to which she replied “so what’s changed?”…

Bonne année et bonne santé tout le monde!

“It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it” (Lou Holtz)

And there you have it

And there you have it. With the bins over-flowing because I didn’t check the holiday schedule and the chaos of another Collins Christmas dinner their main contributor, the house is calm and clean once again. Well, not entirely. Big brother Simon is still in residence along with wife Alba and his three offspring bringing the patter of stomping feet and shoes abandoned in the hallway – an armoury no ankle can avoid. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not just because I love having my niece and nephews here what with all the constant chatter and endless plates of food that I haven’t had to cook but also because I’ve been able to let the reins go and recharge the batteries. I even managed to find whole afternoons to play in the workshop and sort out what to put in my new toolbox that Denis gave me – many a raised eyebrow in his direction over the piles of discarded wrapping paper but he always knows what makes his girl happy. Better yet, Callum called me on Christmas morning, the best present a Mum could receive although maybe not his thoughts on staying in Oz for the foreseeable future.

As for me, the only think I’m looking towards is dumping 2024 in what little space remains in the poubelles outside the gate – the non-recyclable ones. Mind you, with the gorgeous weather we are under at the moment, you’d be hard pressed not to feel those positive vibes stirring the soul. The sunrises that greet you on the early morning run are breath-taking but not half as magical as trekking up Pic de Bugerach yesterday. Located about 28 kilometres away from here, the mountain is the highest peak in the Massif des Corbières lying in foot of the Pyrenees and known for its apparent mystical powers. I can’t say anything odd flowed through me other than fear hiking up its rocky outer face what with the narrow paths lining cliff edges and my poor choice of bootwear. I would like to say it was another proud moment for me to get to the top but I didn’t quite make it – the last stage of the climb got me and I ended up hugging a large boulder trying not to look up, down or sideways. Eventually, thanks to a lot of gentle cajoling from nephew Louis and niece Kate, I slid inelegantly to safer ground below but still high enough to take in the horizon. I add in peace and quiet but I’d brought Arry, Alice and Sherman with us – Arry spent the entire day out on hyper-speed, nearly knocking most of the other walkers off piste so to speak. At least the journey home was blissfully silent unlike the car ride going there which had Arry and Alice shrieking at full volume and me nearly bursting a blood vessel and having wobbled their way up the staircase into the apartment, the three of them passed out not to be seen until this morning.

And there we have it. Just a few more days and we’ll be ringing in 2025. To all, have a great knees-up and I hope the New Year brings you sunshine and roses. For many of us, it will be a time to remember those we have lost over the past 12 months as well. I’d like to give a special mention to my friend Georgie whose husband Iain passed away suddenly just before Christmas. Iain was a good friend to both me and Tony, his unwavering kindness, sharp one-liners and tongue-in-cheek sarcasm never to be forgotten. So, let’s raise a glass or three to seeing the back end of 2024 and to blue skies ahead. And new pool liners…

“I don’t know where I’m going from here but I promise it won’t be boring” (David Bowie)

Helping hands and patient paws

I know Sundays are for lie-ins but waking up this morning and finding out it was 10 am was quite a shock. I’d slept for 11 hours straight. After 5 days looking after Mumo toute seule ,big brother Simon dropped in yesterday to give me and Denis a chance to go out to dinner and a night off – something I didn’t think I needed so badly but obviously did. I’ve spent more snooze hours watching the night sky than seeing my pillow. I don’t know how full-time carers stay upright, it isn’t as though I’m completely on my own this time either, there’s a veritable army of nurses popping in and out all day thanks to the French Healthcare System. Unlike the appalling lack of care the NHS provided for Tony. And as was there for me when I needed them then, I have the support of friends – always on hand if I have a business meeting to go to or a supermarket run to whizz through.

Then there’s family too although between living in far off countries or in Simon’s case, a constant flurry of work commitments and aeroplane hops, means handing over the reins to me what lives here. But not for too much longer, Christmas is only 10 days away and there’s about to be an influx of Collins’ in the house. D and I have finally found time to get the top corner decked out, very minimalist in my opinion but D said I put too many lights up last year and it looked a bit crowded. I did give in on the fairy twinkles but got my way with the tinsel – the reindeer need sparkle. The apartment has been decked out too, very cosily I feel. I’d do the main house as well except, as you know, Mumo refuses to decorate until Christmas Eve which is a total waste of the festive season but she’s the boss. That reminds me, a trip to a tree emporium next week.

Thankfully most of the Christmas cards have been posted especially as I managed to order my annual editions in a somewhat ‘too large for the average postbox’ size. I blame the website, they said I could save money by going big except I haven’t as the stamps cost twice as much. The poor chap behind the post office counter had to weigh each one individually as well which took forever and messed up his lunch break no doubt. Still, at least the dogs’ photo on the front of the card has them facing the right way, my darling woofers deserve to be shown off – they have been my furry faithfuls throughout everything. Arry, Alice and co don’t even stir now when the alarm goes off every couple of hours each night so I can check on the patient and haven’t once complained about not being able to get out over the vines as often as we used to. I don’t half miss the early morning caper up the hills though, running up and down stairs between living spaces isn’t quite the same. Mind you, with the less than enjoyable weather of late, the indoor exercise isn’t likely to result in soggy trainers and frostbitten fingers. Just as well, the reindeer have their natty neckwear really…

“A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.” (Bernard Meltzer)

Pickled fruit and perfect distractions

Running across the frost-covered trails the other day, a random thought flickered through my barely-awake brain. Whilst such things are regular occurrences, half the point of dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is to clear away the cobwebs from my cranium but food is not what one usually brings to mind. More specifically, Christmas cake. Or lack of. Under normal circumstances, this would have been made by Mumo sometime around the beginning of November and left to pickle in alcohol in some dark corner of a cupboard until the big day but she’s still incarcerated in the hospital so it’s up to me to try and make something vaguely similar. Well, the fruit is drowning in the remains of a Cognac bottle I found in the kitchen – hopefully I’ll remember to add the rest of the ingredients tomorrow.

I would have started the great cake bake earlier in the week but having my eldest nephew, Louis, here provided the best of distractions. Not only is he a wonderfully optimistic and enthusiastic soul but easy company too. When we weren’t off pootling around the old homestead that is L’Horte, we were dining with friends or laughing hysterically at bygone sitcoms over one of Louis’ bizarre supper creations. Tarte au citron brûlé being one of them – he put his lemon meringue pie under the grill. Alas, I deposited Louis at Toulouse airport yesterday complete with a hangover (both of us) gifted by a raucous night before chez mes amis. I miss him already as does probably the entire village but he’ll be back in a few weeks to no doubt sample my attempt at traditional Yuletide fare.

The other plus about having Simon’s first born around was being able to spend a few hours in the workshop whilst he visited Mumo. Oh and having an extra hand to help Denis and his brother finally get the railing that once resided in the smaller of the L’Horte houses up onto the remis’ upper floor. The old horse feeding station was hauled up onto what will eventually be a summer apero area by an ancient pulley and a lot of muscle. And since it wasn’t quite big enough to span the deck, my exceptionally talented pal Jonathon (he what made my lamps if you remember) knocked up an almost identical second section. Not only have the photos of the new addition made Mumo happy, the removal of the cumbersome piece means there’s one less artefact from the old life cluttering the garage. Mind you, I’m doing a great job of adding to it what with all my bits and bobs of half-finished furniture.

With the weather getting colder and the heating systems kicking in, it’s just as well that the gardens haven’t needed much of me or D. Apart from the occasional peek at my growing veggies and picking up the last of the almonds and walnuts – the latter, you may be surprised to learn, made the wood stain for the railing. One of Denis’ findings, you soak them in water and then add linseed oil after draining off the nuts which is not only free but good for the environment too. Anyway, I digress. There isn’t much else to do outside except watch the grass grow even longer under the chill of clear skies. As much as I’d love it cut, the vegetation is probably housing all sorts of little beings and I’m not one to disturb nature. Still, there is much to be done in the cosy confines of the big house – little brother Moth arrives mid-week and I have a date with a cake and I have to make my annual Christmas cards which means trying to get all the woofers to face the camera in the same direction and at the same time. I wish I hadn’t poured all that Cognac into the fruit…

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures” (Cynthia Rylant)

Finding the normal in the abnormal

As I drove back from the hospital earlier today, I caught a glimpse of my friends Giselle and Jamel closing up after another, no doubt successful, vide grenier. Whilst I never have time to stop and say hello, seeing the two of them managing the car boot sale every Sunday adds a sense of normality to one’s weekly to-ing and fro-ing. Like Autumn leaves now squishing underfoot as I try not to use my arse as a sled running up the slippery trails through the vines or worse, pick my way across the over-grown lawn vaguely searching for the woofers’ little brown gifts – daily life is, well almost, back in it’s old routine. I say almost because hospital visits shouldn’t be included but Mumo decided to add a pulmonary embolism to her problems so is back in her suite with airport views.

Despite not having much time to devote to my fledgling new business or The Second Book, I did manage to squeeze in a few hours in the workshop yesterday and play with all my presents. Actually, one is still in its kit bag as I’ve never used a soldering iron before and Denis says I have to read the whole manual back to front if I’m to keep the garage intact. Considering he gave me a blowtorch for my birthday, he’ll be lucky if he still has a beard by the end of this week. Still, sanding down a couple of chairs with Callum’s Spotify playlist on full blast was the perfect medicine for this girl’s body and mind. It’s become a running joke in the village as to where to find Sophi – just follow the noise. You’ll be pleased to know that the dentist had a free half hour to put my tooth implant back in so I haven’t read the manual yet.

And since I haven’t had the chance to catch up with friends since the Great British Break, a couple of evenings spent chatting over dinner tables and little blues jam session down at Abraham’s has continued the sense of life’s steady rhythm down here. That and starting my French lessons with my gal pal, Saba. You see, as soon as I got back from my old stomping ground that was London, my language skills went out the plane window. My français was more franglais and my tongue refused to even attempt a sentence. Thank the Gods for giving me a neighbour who just happens to be a brilliant teacher and before you could say grignoter, the words started to flow once more. And speaking of little nibbles, the bio pet-safe slug pellets have been nicely munched by said gastropods who are now putting holes in all my lettuce. The edible dormouse has also raided the line of leeks, oddly random in its choice but D says if it hasn’t gone into hibernation yet he’ll help it on its way.

So normalcy is back in Rouffiac. Sort of. We’re all hoping Mumo gets her release papers on Tuesday so us serfs can cater to her every demand whilst she wiggles her toes in front of the living room fire. I’ve whacked up the heating too – Mumo cannot thrive in any environment other than a sauna even when she’s not fighting the cancer bitch. I wish I could say it was as warm in the apartment but there’s an empty bed in the corner. The woofers aren’t keen on curling up in it either but I just can’t bring myself to move it. The Bear that once lay there is now down by the potager with the plaque that Denis made marking his place of rest. There’s a blog I wrote way back in May 2019 called “Steering in circles” in which I describe widowhood as like being in a boat, chained to a dock and not having the key. Recent events have brought back that feeling of helplessness and frustration but at least this time, I’m better armed. Now where’s that manual?…

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.” (Robert Frost)