The quick and the dead.

I lost a couple of days down the back of the sofa. There has been so much going on that there was no time for the blog. So sorry about that.

The great news is that the little brown mare is home. The red mare and the sweet Paint were so pleased to see her that they put on their own rodeo show to welcome her back. She is a little sore and diminished, in that post-operative way that you see in humans. She has an open wound the size of a hand on her leg, but the vets have done a grand job and she is healing well. I am feeding her back up to fighting strength and, even in the space of thirty-six hours, she already looks like a different horse. There really is no place like home.

I’ve been writing thousands of words for my new secret project. The regular Dear Readers will know I always have a secret project. This one is entirely speculative, and is occupying my mind whilst my agent deals with the manuscript for the official book. If I do not have a secret project then I fret and worry and imagine that something terrible will happen and I shall never be published again. I try to be strict about not worrying about things beyond my control. As you can tell, I am not always successful in this ambition.

The dear Stepfather has gone away for a holiday. I drove him to the airport yesterday and said a fond goodbye. Every day when my mother was alive, I would go to their house and cook them breakfast. We still continue the tradition without her, and I talk to him about politics, which we both love, and make him eggs, and do a little metaphorical tap dance to try to keep his spirits up. He is a very brave man, and we don’t say it out loud, but we still miss her sorely.

This morning, I went to the house to check on it and have a cup of coffee and collect his paper. As I was sitting in the suddenly very silent room, I felt a great yawning gulf of regret. The Stepfather will come back from his holiday, but then he will move down to the south, to be near to his family and his old friends. This room, where he and I and my mother ate breakfast, and watched the Derby and the Grand National and the Gold Cup, and had Christmas and Easter, will be truly empty then. It will no longer be mine, with my ghosts in it. There will be another tenant, and I shall drive past the door and not go in.

It’s been a good week, really. I’ve had to deal with a bit of stuff, but everybody has to deal with a bit of stuff, every week. I’ve got a lot done and seen my beloved horse come back to us. But I am a little haunted by that empty room. Just a little.