I’m still on 7. And 7 is not bad.
7 means that I am sort of content. It means that nothing terrible has occurred, that I survived the homeward bound trip with Candy, stirring the moments around him with that viscous substance that he calls conversation. Just how well practised do you have to be to fail to see your passenger trying to sleep, jump out of the car window, make strong faces to a god who is obviously not there, or try to order very strong prescription drugs.
“So, are you sad that you are leaving?”
His form of conversation means that he never, ever, listens to what other people have to say.
You have to be careful in the morning, a little slip of concentration can lead to a landslide. I’m still keeping at 7, only just. And that is after the middle daughter was asked if she could boil another kettle of water which she almost did before abandoning after breaking the kettle. Now the kettle is at boiling point and Candy will be shuffling around his own morning routines.
I shouldn’t let things creep in, but it’s difficult.
I have a friend. His wife is sectioned after manifesting anorexia in her forties. When our middle daughter was in her teens and suffered from the same issue, she was amongst a crowd of people who said it was a self-indulgent illness that was taking up valuable hopsital beds.
She has been in hospital, a specialist anoxeric establishment, for about six months now.
Anyway, my friend loves his wife and visits her everyday. He has a teenage daughter who has started to waste-away.
Random thoughts that shouldn’t be thought.