Chilly

Well, Granny is back home, it's chilly and quite cloudy again and she has gone down with a bad cold. It's not clear who started it - both Beloved and Mr Handsome started suffering before her and each of them seems to think they caught it from the other. Well, it doesn't matter and Granny knows hers came from Beloved for sure. And this after arriving home feeling smug that she'd managed to avoid all the colds that were besetting her family in London... thinking that's it for the winter at least. But it wasn't.

She is still sad of course. Grief is like a baby that keeps waking in the night and making sure you know it's there and that you're ready to give it attention. It brings back to Granny the death of her own twin in particular - but then it brings that back to everyone, to her twin's children, especially, as all of them confront the loss of this other tiny, twin who, with her sister, was supposed to make the family feel whole again in a symbolic kind of way. But life is not that neat is it, and we shouldn't get our hopes up so ever. Serves us right. Except that hope it necessary and good and why not run with it now and then, even if you end up turning round and cursing it, more often than not? After all it does turn out to be the right feeling sometimes. Of course it does. (Granny is being hopeful again. Silly - or not so silly - her.)

Many comforts here, despite the - relative - cold. The garden is full of vegetables ready to eat; Granny picks peas, broad beans, pulls spinach, cuts artichokes, digs up fennel; all of it delicious. And today she made strawberry jam with local strawberries, some of them from her garden. And the island with its fuzz, its fur of grass these days after all the rain, and many flowers still and all the new life and re-tilled fields now that people have no work and have to grow things, is looking more beautiful - delectable - than ever. And the sea is an amazing blue and the surfers ride the waves - some much more skilfully than others - and birds are everywhere - including more than usual up here, because of all the food - so that is good.

Also Granny has been reading a perfect comfort book. One of those oddities, unlike anything else, called The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. About the occupation of Guernsey during the war, terrible in parts, but also very romantic. Try it.

Also Beloved Daughter is coming to stay next Sunday for a whole week. Now that has to be alright, not to say good. It is.

Granny has a small glass of malt whisky alongside the computer, called a cold cure. That's all helping too. Skol. L'chaim. Prosit. Sante. Bottoms up. Whatever you like. (Though L'chaim might be best. It means to life. Yes. TO LIFE! She'll drink to all of you. She's drinking. Cheers.)