Day 114: Peaks

Got a migraine. My thoughts are all jumbled, my vision loose.

Family meal last night, Liz and Jamie and my uncle all up from London, meal at my mum's with Fran and the dog. Avocado and walnut and quinoa salad, vegetable samosas, hummus, Yorkshire pickle, cheeses, breads. Piling on helpings, buttering slices, eating far past the point of being full.

The others drinking wine, insisting on midnight adventures walking Fran and me back. Liz jogging ahead with Mission, running back, turning behind us, pushing her way back through. "Out the way, grannies, important business, we got places to be, come on." Mission wagging his tail, trotting with the funny woman, bemused at humans and wine.

This morning long walks in the Peak District. Grindleford and up to the edge, Surprise View car park, down to Padley Gorge and back through the woods to the cafe. Fran stayed at home and had a recovery day, so we took Mission and wore him out.

Stones lined with lichen and moss. The swaying of bracken. The air up on the edge clear in our lungs. Silver birch whispering. The soft sounds through the tree line. The muffled warmth of the woods. And the complexities of families. The calmness of families. Not knowing what to say. Saying nothing. Then discussing the nature of mind and of memory, discussing religion and politics, making nice small talk, then not knowing what to say. The dog limping. Liz recognising that Jamie was flagging. Everyone thinking how far to the cafe. Then arriving, and ordering, big plates of sausages and egg and chips. Yorkshire puddings large as your head. Stained mugs of tea and coffee. The dog collapsed under the bench trying to get comfortable on my coat.

Saying goodbyes to Liz and Jamie, finally home to Fran's. My migraine coming on, taking codeine and lying on the sofa, as Chris and Fran watched Orange is the New Black. Me not taking it in, then finding myself involved, then wondering if I'd been asleep.

Migraine too much to eat tea, lying with the dog massaging my temple, letting the muscles around my eyes all go loose. Letting the world wash out and out and out.

Now in bed beside Fran, as she checks in with her zombie Island, and Mission sighs at the bottom of the bed. The windows wide open, the lamplight soft and red.

Day 44: Coming home

Back from the country. We weren't kidnapped by locals and experimented upon and changed. Unless part of the process of being changed was taking out bits of our brains so that we didn't remember being changed. Maybe I'm not myself. Maybe none of us are ourselves. But what can you do? You just have to carry on, hoping that it all makes sense, that there is some force for good moving you beneath your conscious awareness, that you are not a secret sleeper agent for a malevolent cult growing out of a small village near Holmfirth biding your time until you are activated as the first phase in a plan of world domination and terror.

You just have to carry on carrying on. So that's what I'll do.

We woke up at a decent hour this morning and stripped the bed (Fran) and washed the last dishes (Fran) and put everything back where we'd found it (Fran) and drank instant coffee (me), then folded the dog into a taxi, sat in around him, and drove to the railway station away from our idyllic little retreat.

On the train we sat largely in silence, watching the little towns roll by, with Mish up on the seats opposite, my hand on Fran's knee, Fran playing with her zombies on her phone, me reading about trade deals on the New York Times app.

We went for lunch in the Rutland when we arrived back in the city. Fran had a vegan patty, with cheese to confuse the bartender. I had a fish finger sandwich. The chips were real chips, fat and glorious. Fran had a pint. I had an orange drink. Fran's pint looked good, as do they all.

We hauled our bags to the bus stop in a thick drizzle as Mission padded along daintily beside us, head up, drawing looks, as always. I saw Fran onto her bus and then hurried off for my own.

I've done very little back at the house. Listened to episodes of the Serial podcast, which is fascinating and illuminating and I recommend highly, had some snoozes, eaten tea.

Gentle day, and an early night, with work again in the morning (all the hisses).

As of tomorrow I'll have been writing this blog for 45 days. halfway to my target of 90. I've still got a long way to go, but just for a moment I'll allow that right now, thinking about how far I've come, it feels pretty good.

Night night.