Getting Used to the Quiet
Well, here we are again, another Saturday, flour on my hands and something rising in the airing cupboard same as always. Except this week's had a peculiar, slightly wrong-footed feeling running underneath all of it that I don't think properly goes away, not for a good while yet anyway. If you saw my last post, you'll know why. It's been a long week without our Jack pottering about the place, and I'll tell you something about grief that nobody thinks to warn you about beforehand: it plays tricks on your eyes. I've lost count of the number of times this week I've caught a shape out of the corner of my eye, black and low down near the floor, and been halfway to saying his name before I've properly looked and realised it's a pair of slippers kicked off by the back door, or the wash basket sat exactly where it always sits, or, on one particularly daft occasion, my own boots left out after a morning up the plot. Sara reckons she's done the exact same ...
