My brain is an officially useless handful of wet shit. I’ve written about 400 words today, not counting emails. Went for a short walk to pick some stuff up — I don’t recall the last time I took a long walk for anything, and I’m not sure I even could any more — and the roads were full of cars, and the pavements were full of dogwalkers and alcoholics. All through this thing, the only people you’d reliably see outside are the street drinkers. Once a week, we all go outside to clap for the NHS (we live next door to a nurse, and there are NHS workers neat the end of the street, so it’s not necessarily that performative, remote thing for us), and neighbours we’ve never spoken to before wave and yell “See you next week!”
My daughter and her partner, over in Brighton, have been buying brewing equipment on my Amazon account and are about to begin bubbling up god knows what kind of fatal alcoholic nightmares in their new place. We haven’t seen them since my birthday in February. I suspect we may not see them until August or September. I was supposed to be in LA for a job this autumn, a month-long consulting gig in a room. That is being, how you say, adjusted.
I’m working on adjusting to the adjustment, again. And running out of red wine, again.