And yet.

Contents of my bag

some used false eyelashes
a John Varvatos cologne sample
unopened contact lenses
a New York subway map
a well thumbed London A-Z
2 different handcreams
3 anti nausea pills
a penguin chocolate bar wrapper
my Sony cybershot
loads of bits of paper

Getting out of my car to what has become my regular friday afternoon activity of collecting the children from school, I can smell swimming pool. Chlorine and feet and wet hair and disinfectant.

My therapist has a candle burning, I can smell the lavender from down the stairs. It strikes me that I should give her a candle to say thankyou, in my final session, which is just weeks away.I feel bad that I know nothing about her life, only her first name, yet exonerated in perhaps not being allowed to know.

On arriving back in Oxford last night, after the first things first action of juice making-apple and pear and carrot-i rifle thru my bags for the book I am reading. Having left it in London, I take another from the pile that awaits me, and begin.
A while later, sleep pulls me away from what I see now is one of those literary jewels that you come across, maybe once every year or so, that you can't stop reading, but never want to end.
THIS is the kind of book, I would like to write.

I am reading a book about love. I have avoided love for the past 16 months, this self-censorship dictating the films I would watch, or rather would not, the books I would not read. I have opted out for so long now. But I feel like this book chose me. Reading it, I remember love. I recall its all encompassing need, its importance, its urgency. I remember its beginnings. And like buds coming up through a previously frozen ground, I wonder, if my winter is finally over.

Listening with euphoria to For the Time Being by Phonique feat. Erlend Oye

Sketching...my nephews face

Reading.....
THE HISTORY OF LOVE by Nicole Krauss