The shape of things to come

Spotted on an evening walk around the cemetery, which is also a nurture reserve. As was the case at the beginning of lockdown, I take regular walks there because it is nearby, and peaceful. Such walks tend to introspection, though, so sometimes I walk elsewhere. Today I realised that the anniversary of my father's death was either today, or yesterday. He died in Mexico in 2001 under a false name. He was estranged from his UK family. I had no confirmation of his death until two and a half years ago, so I don't feel sad, exactly. More of a thought that 70 years is no great age at which to die. We live longer now, or do we?

This afternoon I placed an order for more cards, and made lunch. Soon I will make supper. Perhaps we'll eat outside. I'm sorry that this extended and bizarre holiday is coming to an end, and the garden is still a mess! My novels remain unwritten. I'd hoped for so much creativity, and achieved so little. I don't even know where I've stashed the one poem I managed to scrawl down a couple of weeks ago.

And yet, I'm alive. Steve is alive, and my friend Dave, and my family, and we haven't lost our jobs (yet). We don't know what the future holds, but we are in for some turbulence. I must enjoy this sunny evening while I can.

Tomorrow, the return to nursery. Just INSET, no teaching.