I read The Wind In The Willows when I was there, for the first time ever. It deserves every bit of its glory, and the Shepard illustrations are as captivating and sweet as the immortal ones he made for Winnie The Pooh. And there's a few scenes in the book which are so spot on, so emotional and captivating they brought tears to my eyes.
The last time I watched the Eurovision was in the eighties, but we were chatting in the living room and the Eurovision happened on the screen and Israel won, with a kickass song and a kickass singer. And it's going to remain a very pleasant memory now, daddy and me holding hands and talking about everything, anything, with those sappy happy completely fake lyrics and utterly genuine emotions happening on screen.
"This is called raising the sun", said the pilot; we were flying north, seconds after sunset; it was dark - but we were chasing the sun, and it was incredible - because as we did, I saw the sun rising over the western horizon. It was mind boggling. It also sparked a conversation with the guy next to me and we didn't stop talking until the landing; another nice memory.
And... home. Some sort of weird acceptance of things; perhaps less of a struggle against what's happening. I think it's healthier, but it feels like giving up. Whatever; being so afraid 24/7 is draining.
Kissed husband. Sat to Blender. Made tea. Listened to The Last Ship. It's all the tropes of normality, but nothing is. So weird. And the Big Shit didn't even hit the fan yet. Gosh, life. Why you do. You're so scary I sometimes wonder who's the nutcase weirdo that has the guts to face you at all.