It is Saturday. I have one hundred things to do and yet here I am, coffee and orange shortbread in hand, doing nothing. Sitting in two cardigans in the garden, typing with my laptop on my knee.
Because sometimes it is nice to just be.

I fear I will miss this when Richard lives here. This silence. Richard, man of action. Me, barely willing to move at all: content to listen to the voices in my head and watch the laundry flutter on the line.

But move I must because today I am in charge of the chickens at number thirty one. Today I have to join the thronging masses in the clothes shops, see girls shopping with curlers in their hair, fake eyelashes fluttering like so many spiders on their eyelids. Today my sister is home and the boys will play and we will all place bets on the Grand National and I will sit with my head in my hands because I cannot bear to watch the horses fall over. Cannot bear not to win.

But now I must go move the shoes this family abandons in every corner of the house. Blow out my hyacinth scented morning candle.

Now I must wash my coffee cup and start the day.
How precious these hours are to me now.