A chink of hope…

The phrase in this meme is something I often say to alcoholics in early recovery or people who can’t seem to move on…

I protested last Thursday because I want something to stop. That didn’t get me far except the police have complete sympathy for me. That gave me a tiny succour and today I replied to some emails.

Construction has stopped. I don’t know how long for.

Today I bumped into a friend in my neighbourhood. He said if I decide to move, he and his sons will do it for me. And he added, whatever you do don’t use QL, pointing at the office, they’re plonkers and added another word I can’t repeat.

I said how strange! They let the house next door to me and they libel me and act like the Stasi. ‘Utter incompetents’ he responded. This is why I never mention my town. No one is identifiable.

So, I have made a short list of maybes. From my neighbourhood to 30 miles away. But I know a move won’t happen. I’m exhausted and all I’ve done is wander the Quay and water the garden.

The rest is writing, which doesn’t take effort except mental concentration. I got my weekly report from my editing suite. A new tone was detected. Sad.

I saw him yesterday, maybe Saturday. He was hurrying which takes away his gracefulness. But I recognised the width of his shoulders and narrow hips, although he is gaining inches of fat. Alcohol does that.

My strawberries are not yet ripe. Still more sweetness to come. And more flowers are blooming so more fruit to come and there are others still green.

Figs are doing well, and tomato plants are massive. I need to cut away more leaves so that the fruit gets more sun and flavour.

I’m not anxious since the builders left. I now have more writing to do to send to my county’s central council.

I shall sleep easy tonight.