Once upon a time I used to write a lot of letters. With no Internet or texting, no e mail and no mobile phone that was what people did. I have a box on my desk filled with letters. The fateful journey that drove me into madness is recorded letter by letter in there.
Nearly 32 years later I can't remember when I last received a personal letter. Neither have I written one. All those years of medication and the shakiness that brings has more or less destroyed my ability to write by hand. Oh what the world might be, fun to remember but we can never go back there.
Yet there is a very important letter somewhere in transit. Not to me but to my dad. The last two pieces of the puzzle of my imminent home ownership future is held up in the post.
Please Mr Postman, hurry up!
On this sunny Sunday afternoon though I can do nothing about that. All I can do is listen to Mozart, stay hydrated and contemplate roast pork later. Sarah is coming round for that
This weekend has been a bit out of kilter. Both my plans for yesterday were thwarted. One by someone else's search for a property and the other by someone having a close exposure to covid. So no lunch with another Sarah and no visit from Charlotte.
I'm not downhearted though. There will always be another day and another weekend.
I Heard a Voice.
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