I have been on my own for over a week, as Val is spending grandmotherly time in Derby. In that time, I have spoken to two people who called at the house (a fireman from the local volunteer force who called to sell me their fundraising calendar, and the postwoman who delivered a package too big to fit in the mailbox). It’s been very calm, and the routine has been absorbing. I’ve not been at all bored, and I’ve managed to do some additional jobs with the digger that I had been meaning to get round to for ages.
Perhaps my bliss really consists of solitude?
But each day, I have looked forward to talking to Val on the phone, often for the best part of an hour. She and I have chatted online at intervals throughout the day. I have also exchanged internet messages and mails with a range of friends and family. So it seems as though I don’t want to be truly alone.
Which reminds me of the famous American poet, Emily Dickinson. A lover of isolation to the point of weirdness . . . and yet she wrote thousands of letters to friends. A quote from one of these letters seemed particularly appropriate today, as I struggled to capture an image of the solar eclipse. It would somehow have been better to have seen this together.