"Is that the morris dancing version?" I asked.
"It was supposed" he replied "to be the can-can."
I hugged him hard. The edge of tears,the toppling from ordinariness or laughter over it, is now more like turning one's foot on the kerbside than plummeting into any worse abyss.
"I wish we were tougher people."
A Robert Graves poem came to mind, which I looked up.
Have you not read
The words in my head,
And I made part
Of your own heart?
We have been such as draw
The losing straw -
You of your gentleness,
I of my rashness,
Both of despair -
Yet still might share
This happy will:
To love despite and still...
The last lines
But, O, refuse
Where chance may seem to give
Loves in alternative.
are satisfyingly irrelevant. A post and some comments over at Dave King's a while back, about Anna Akhmatova, made me ponder a bit about growing out of love poetry. The stuff that drew me in isn't what I stay for. That poetry about sedate, spousal, well-worn love, washing one's clean linen in public, as it were, runs the risk of being smug and uninteresting, but the other kind often now seems overwrought and self-indulgent. Another post another time, perhaps, but probably not. Love poems for grown-ups, anyone?
Molly has a very stylish translucent royal blue lampshade. She seemed genuinely pleased with it, but then she quite likes any new thing pertaining to herself which involves fuss and making much of. She also has a pink one, but I think she looks better in blue, not being a very girlie girl.
Yesterday's jab, that we had to do ourselves, could have been worse. For Molly and for me anyway. We're very touched by all your kindness about her, especially from those who I know are not really 'dog people', but who take our affection for her and concerns about her seriously nevertheless.
Saved Nut # 4
Joe writing about the profligacy of digital photography reminded me of it, and when I read back over it, I had that pleasant sense of unfamiliarity - did I write this? - which I think is often a good sign. At the time, in the comments, I was asked 'But how do you know?' The answer should have been, for I am ever someone who never thinks of the bon mot at the moment it is called for, even in writing when I've time to think about it, is 'I just gno!'