Does it hurt when I ask around for a lift to the supermarket and discover friends are off on holiday in any number of places I’d love to visit or see again? Yes it does.
Do I forget the hurt, the minute I get back into story? Yes, I do. Problem is, I have to stop from time to time, even though I’m delighted with the opportunity holidays offer to use the time as most matters to me.
The thick autumn fall has lifted. It’s creeping up on lunchtime.
Yesterday, a former work colleague and carpenter delivered two small shelving units for my tiny bedroom. In exchange, he’s asked for some letter writing of the administrative kind. He came with one of the foster children in his care and another who spends occasional weekends in his home. The two children behaved the way clingy insecure animals do – crowding into whatever space we occupied as if we might disappear through a panel in the wall and never be heard from again if they let us out of their sight. I wouldn’t have the patience to deal with that or any other traces of the traumas inflicted on these kids. Ah la-la, as the translation goes in my French version of The Iliad, when Athena or Hera respond to Zeus. Ah la-la la-la la-la.
Bueno. El sandwich time, plus some puttering around my living space, then back to whatever revisions await in the next scene.