Multiple sclerosis has stolen by corrosive degrees the very thing that sustained us; it has eroded the passion, hollowed us both out; the outer casing is cracked and does not hold.
The Scatterling series – 35, 36, 37 & 38
I should finish telling you about going shopping after gardening while still wearing my gardening clothes. My shopping was of the unexciting kind. It involved getting a new gas canister on which the production of hot water in my household is dependent, and putting fuel in my car, on which so many aspects of my... Continue Reading →
The Scatterling series – 31, 32 & 33 – er, & 34
My handwriting is very scribbly these days, so here is a transcription of the words on the pink bit of paper: Someone in the tax office today reminded me how much I dislike the sound of finger nails drumming on wood. Since the arbitrary delineation marking the passage of time has recently clocked the addition... Continue Reading →
The Scatterling series – 28, 29 & 30
I was quite conscious that the next story in this potted story of me so far was ostensibly about whisky when I attended the convivial gathering after the English Carol Service in my village on Thursday evening. I cannot claim, despite a burning desire for it to be so, that I experienced the expanded state... Continue Reading →