Tudor Spice.

If I believe the history books-and I have no particular reason not to-Tudor England was probably a dirty, noisy, smelly, and paranoid place. Not a place for the poor with all the disease and an uncertain place for the rich. A time of spies and intrigue, beheadings and religious divisions. I'm not sure I would have liked to live in those times. Yet there is something magical about the Tudors, their food. We call them English spices now although of course most came from Southeast Asia. Cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, and cloves. All wonderful. They also had a passion for mixing fruit with meat. Not my favourite things although my goose with roasted pears last Christmas was a triumph.

Well it is not Christmas now. Nor am I using fruit. Yet there is divine smell of that English spice cloves. That's right my ham in the oven is studded with cloves and perfuming my small flat as I face another quiet Sunday.

I don't really feel anything today. Not good, not bad just nothing. It is not the terrible emptiness I experienced back in the winter when I had my relapse. I'm just detached. I have no desire to go to work tomorrow after the events of last week. Fortunately I'm only in 2 days next week. But the week after the whirlwind will take over my life until April. Can I survive that onslaught as I have before? Probably but I'm not sure I want to. My motivation and belief is low and I want a new start. Who knows if or when that will come.

Think I might listen to some Offenbach after lunch. Here's to lunch lifting my mood. If not I must rely on watching my beloved St Louis Rams play on TV tonight-not seen that for nearly 2 years.

I Heard a Voice.