At last, I can write again.
Glad to have taken the month of November off.
Building works happening in the house are the worst. My rubble life. Brick by brick raining down past windows, the dog barking uncontrollably at workmen shuffling in and out of the house with buckets of cement. Dust on carpets and book binds and in my hair and plaster on bare feet. The clanking and the clanging. The shouting and crash of masonry. Not conducive to writing. Or running it seems, as the stress stopped A from doing his favourite thing too. We were both hunks of stale bread huddled together on the sofa.
Finally, we are free! The scaffolding is down. I can see the light from above when I open the blinds. Now all that is left is the interminable cleaning, but that’s OK. I like cleaning.
I’m glad I’ve taken the month of November off.
October was full of things, occasions. I went to a wedding in Oxford. The newlyweds surprised everyone by taking us on a boat trip straight after their Town Hall wedding, and we sailed down the Isis into the countryside. It was dusk, rowers on the river paused and parted, and I ducked low as the branches of a tree with its leaves turning red brushed the top deck of our boat. The light was fading into a lavender hue, and I clinked my glass of champagne with the father of the groom – suave and smiling – resplendent with paternalistic pride.
