The Guildhall Flooded, Linton

A photo my dad took on a Rollei camera he had. Its the Guildhall in Linton. I grew up uncomfortable in the village. One year the diminutive little river created an almighty flood. One of my brother's woke Mum and Dad with the news, 'There's a boat in the High Street.' Which they of course did not believe. But there was.

Funnily enough when living in Kent I learnt that the parents of a neighbour had bought the Guildhall.

I went in first thing and said my goodbyes, promising to be back soon. It was a good visit that passed too quickly. Some fences mended. Others still waiting, the stones rolling off the balance of their own accord, like in Robert Frost's poem, which I read to my Mum.

I am so full of admiration for the carers and nurses in the home.

A last wave, another kiss, the distance opening up down the corridor.

A full breakfast at Terminal 2 and a delayed flight. We veered down through low cloud and rain in Zurich, already dark. A guy was waiting to snatch me away on the jetway in a minibus. First to passport control and then to the waiting plane for Florence. I thought I might have to ride on the wing but I clambered up the service steps and staggered around with my bits of luggage.

It was dark and the streets seemed more crowded and more narrow than when I left them. The sat nav took a mysterious route and by the time I got back to the flat I was agitated and out of sorts. Even the olive oil failed to console me.

Bloody winter, bloody old age, bloody dementia, bloody distances and bloody death. A curse on all their houses.