I’m working my way through Oliver’s diary and trying to read at least one month every night.  It’s so strange reading someone else’s diary, especially one that was maintained for so many years without a single missing day.  That’s dedication for you.  But, as Oliver explained it to me once, it is fear that drives the ardent diarist; a fear that his life must be written down in order for it to actually mean anything.  Of course it’s wildly dramatic!  Even at the age of nineteen he was wearing kohl pencil to Art College and falling in love with just about every bloke that looked his way.


Somebody (and that somebody can only be Geoff) knocked my little fetish off the hall table yesterday and broke his spear.  I hope that’s not bad mojo!  I stuck him back together with some Bostick and he’s right as rain.  I’ve moved him to a less precarious perch on the living room bookshelves.  I really need to sort through some of those books.  Everything is jammed in together and half of them are things we’ll never read again.  We both feel virtually criminal when we throw books away; even those dreadful paperbacks that you end up buy in airports because your flight’s twelve hours delayed.


The garden is looking gorgeous after all that rain.  When I opened the bedroom curtains this morning at around 6.30 everything was so startlingly green that it looked almost unnatural.  Everything is fresh and new and vibrant and even on cool, damp days I love that smell of loam and leaf.  A fantastic blanket of bluebells all the way through Spinney’s Wood.  I was in my own fairytale.


Off to bed now, and hopefully I’ll get through some more of Oliver’s diary before I nod off.  Geoff’s already been asleep for two hours.  We’ve got new sheets!  Yes, I finally threw away the threadbare set that I have loved for so long, and bought some lovely, sturdy Belgian linen sheets.  Impractical, I know!  A nightmare to iron and a bit ‘rough’ at first, before they’ve been washed a few times.  White, of course.  I would never entertain any other colour.  A bed should be pure, simple and of the highest quality possible.  I want my bed to hug me, to comfort me and to cosset me.  It is my refuge.

BarmyCow BarmyCow
51-55, F
May 17, 2012