I was talking to a spunky 80 Year old after Quaker meeting yesterday about grief. Her adult son died four years ago in very sad circumstances. She said that the grief doesn’t go away but sometimes it feels much worse. It swoops in and takes her over: she calls this a “grief attack.” It’s an interesting expression.
I think it’s what I’ve had lately. It’s been like depression – waking up with a black cloud hovering over my head, a cloud that follows me around all day. I can be distracted for a few happy hours, but then it returns. It seems to have gone for now, thank goodness.
The only other news is that I have a verruca. Who ever heard of a pensioner with a verruca?
(which sounds very like one of Daise’s one line diary entries in Plotting for Grown-ups.)