It is raining, and strong gusts of wind are teasing the tops of the trees outside the thin windows of my parents' house. It is great weather for sailing as long as you don't mind the rain, and it is the day of the Round The Island Race. Because conditions have been conducive to speed, the sails of every tint and size passed Ventnor hours ago, and the sea is salt-green and grey tipped with blown white spray.
The tree outside my old window has been brutally shortened. Fresh cut pale yellow wood stands out starkly as I look down to the garden. That tree held generations of wood pigeons who used to call in the morning and I would lie still, silent and comfortable in my bed and listen to them while the light strengthened around the curtains. I heard their hooting calls again this morning, but they have moved to another tree across the street, and the sound was muted by the wind.
My Mother is not well; she has not been for over three and a half years. Her indomitable spirit has coped through the pain of fibromyalgia and the energy-sapping frustrations of ME for all that time, and she is still so quick to laugh. Keith is exhausted from work - he is newly qualified as a teacher, and works long hours both in the classroom and assisting the organisers of the course he recently completed so ably.
So things are quiet here in this old house. It is a grey and rainy Saturday afternoon, and I am at home.
oh my GOD i didn't see the title of your site until i'd finished writing mine. freakish.
errr, make that word "site" into the word "post". VERY tired round these parts.