Sunday morning and I wake at 8.30. I make my way to the washroom, come back, dress, take Ted for a quick functional walk, fold the bed away, sit down, put the kettle on for tea, and wait for it to boil. Another solitary day stretches out in front of me and I think: what’s the bloody point. It was Chris’s birthday the day before yesterday; I found it unexpectedly uplifting but now I’ve come down with a mighty thump.
It’s only a five-week camping trip and I used to believe that I’d do rather well as a castaway. I quite like my own company and, as an introvert, most of the time what goes on inside my head is much more interesting to me than what goes on outside. Being on my own shouldn’t really be a problem, should it? Chris of course was the complete opposite: an extrovert who found her identity in relationship with others.
It’s a cliché that opposites attract, which is probably why we fitted together so well. Opposites also drive each other crazy. I’d sit quietly enjoying a rare moment of silence and she’d say “What’s the matter?” She’d come home from meeting yet another new group of fascinating people and tell me at length what one person I’d never met said to another person I’d never met, and my eyes would glaze over.
I’d give anything for the chance to piss each other off again.
Coming Home to Story 
Ey up, lad. x
Geoff… thought you might like to watch and listen to this. It’s an Irish singer, singing about grief. Three million people have watched it in a few days. Says a lot about what you’re feeling and writing about.
Travel safe and take care… Px