On not talking about the only thing I am capable of thinking about.

I'm tired of being unable to write here. I'm tired of the brief inanities that I can post. I'm tired of the lockdown, the impending showdown, the inevitable meltdown.

I want to write about what is happening to us all because writing it out helps to work through it. But it's no good writing it and keeping it; it's the sending it out into the ether that is the therapeutic bit. Because then my very big problem stops being mine and becomes a insignificant little page in the gargantuan internet book. The act of posting it feels like registering my feelings; 'I feel like this and it HURTS!' A simple record. And it's not to do with who notices, or if anyone reads it. It isn't to do with a desire for 'huggles', or online platitude, or even a need for the simple, gentle kindness of online friends (although that is of course lovely).

It's the simple act of it being there. That I've said it. That somebody completely uninvolved may stumble across it. It's the words, spoken, breathed out and unkeepable, the tears cried.

Oh.

I shall be so very, very glad when this is finally all over.

But it's like playing Grandma's footsteps. No matter how much it may appear otherwise, there is someone there and they are following.

On How A Bit Of Watering Does Wonders.

My friend Nina on plants: "I always thought I was terrible with plants but then I started looking after the one in my old bathroom and it got much better."