Home alone. Phew. Sleeping in my own bed again, alone, for the first time in six nights (I shared with YD for one night then SIL2 arrived and I was back on the sofa). The sofa is OK, but it's exactly 5'9" between the arm-rests, which is my height and that makes it too short.

It's been OK, mostly, but there's been too much going on for me. Lots of it has been great, but my capacity to participate has shrunken down to almost nothing. Hostess skills? Nada.

However, D has waved her magic sewing machine over YD's motley bag of charity shop skirts and dresses and kazoom - we have a bride's and bridesmaids' outfits, all cool and groovy. Having her here sewing was fabulous - she's my very old mate, friends for over thirty years, fellow stoner-granny, nourishing to my soul, as is SB who was also there. Yesterday we went to see SB's brother's art installation for the festival, in a part of the city I didn't know existed, with proper woodland and a clearing full of beautiful dappled shade. I don't have it in me to describe the art, so it must be time for bed.




I am grateful for: friends old and new; yoga; my new walking stick; an empty bed; rain due