It is today. I woke up early, well short of my eight hours. MasterB tucked at the t-shirt I slept in, miaowed, demanded out.
The milk was off, though well short of its use by date. I didn’t fancy black coffee. I shall have to wait. I read a poem by Rebecca Goss called Birth. It is in the review section of last Saturday’s Guardian. I cried. Then I made a list: eggs, bread, milk, cottage cheese. Another: washing, take magazines to GP, send card, write invoice.
Maybe later I can have a nap.
This afternoon my friend Sue arrives from Houston. It is years since we have seen each other. Another friend is collecting her from the airport. “I feel so excited” she texted, “like being fifteen again.”
We had hoped to picnic in the garden but the weather is uncertain.
Another, unrelated, drama is going on. All the kittens and their mother are captured and in a large dog crate with one of my neighbours. That’s good, but it brings its own problems, not least that the neighbour is about to go to her native Brazil for a month.
Texts are zinging backwards and forwards. We’re hoping a shelter will be able to take them if a vacancy becomes available.
I think I’d better get the washing sorted.