The 15th February

I’m currently sat on the sofa with some tea while Henry is off running up a hill. I’ve stayed behind because it’s very cold, and I feel very sleepy and low on oestrogen and energy. He’ll be back soon, so I don’t think this will be very long.

We’re in a village just outside the Yorkshire Dales for a weekend away. We’ve been doing lots of walking and reading and making plans and changing plans and going back to original plans. It’s gentle. It’s low key. The sky is grey, and the air is icy.

We didn’t come away for Valentine’s Day (oh no no no – that’s just a happy coincidence). We came way because the day after marks eight years since my Mum died. I wanted to be away and doing something different and deliberate.

The 15^th February is a sticky date. A hard to ignore date. An ‘it’s-nearly-the-15^th’ sort of date. I can’t stop thinking about it, but I can stop thinking about it. It’s just there hovering. A date pumped with so much more significance than I am currently feeling. The discord is a little confusing.

I feel mellow. I feel sluggish. But that could just be my period. It’s so hard to tell. All I know is that it’s the 15^th in two days. And it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. And I don’t feel particularly romantic or griefy. But I am enjoying dunking chocolates into tea and reading my book on the sofa (a Jackson Brodie – I love Kate Atkinson), and not having to set an alarm in the morning.