Scattered.

Acid wash jeans are back in vogue, it would seem, along side feathered fringe. Or is it crop tops and flannel? I'm so very confused but I am also borderline hysterical/giddy with exhaustion and sugar overload, walking to Hornsey Station with Miss Jones in the gloaming of a Wednesday evening.  

The alternator died and was briefly resurrected, just enough to get to London, then to the mechanics Tuesday night.  I am consumwd by worry:dining chairs: were there enough? My dad, not answering his phone and his dwindling weight.  My brother, championing for early release.  And renovating the house: I have only been up to the house twice since picking up the keys in early September. It feels a lifetime ago. Now a luncheon for two chemists and my favourite existentialist.  

The exsistentialst and I catch up. 'My dear. I am looking at buying a castle. Would you  renovate and set up?'  'Let me get through this one first,' I say.  One foot alongside the other. 

 The future feels hazy and full of white noise. 'Something Jewish-Cajun, please my dear?' My favourite fake fiancée asks, kissing my forehead. I sigh. What does that even look like? Hush puppies, of course. Or falafel, the kissing cousin. Pomegranate and molasses roast chicken. Cheese. Cheese.

Car returned and I could drive to Norwich it feels such a bridge too far. I genuinely don't know how to make it just an hour up the road, my heart flicking over. 

Thursday the hospital ring: we're explaining Hospice isn't about death. 

At 5'10" and 100 pounds, Death isn't hovering with malice. He's there, making a cup of tea, plumping the pillow. 

Meetings, meetings, meetings. Board meetings, cultural identity meetings. I still haven't put in my archival supply order. Conscious that the end of October looms and I have a collection to donate. It didn't feel like more than I could chew when I took on the work. But now, to know I might have to push back again...it's painful, the slicing cut of recognizing I have limits, that I might fail, when everything feels like a warning shot fired low, resonating. 

Cue the next load of laundry.