Nearly two weeks into the new house, we still have no internet. Or telephone. Or television. I have stopped phoning anyone, lest I have to rob a bank to pay for my next mobile phone bill. It is a little bit like living in the stone age, only without the facial hair thing going on.
Without modern-day distractions, I have resorted to something homo australopithecus surely did before going to bed, which is ploughing through the pile of books they’d ordered on Amazon a long time ago but never gotten around to reading.
I have enjoyed this, especially “Every last one” by Anna Quindlen, one of my favourite authors. I won’t spoil the plot for you, but will just say that I could not sleep once I’d reached the second half of the novel, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like T leaving was such a minor blip, considering I still had my two
spoilt brats, hair-raising monsters delightful children.
This book brings home the terrifying fragility of all that we take for granted in our lives, all that isn’t enough to make us happy, but should make us treasure every day like it is going to be the last.
That’s the theory anyway. In practice, I get bogged down by shopping lists, broken locks, and a ragged feeling of loneliness. There’s such a fine line between feeling ok, even mildly happy at times, and sinking back into misery. It never ceases to amaze me.