Dave and I were at our favourite café yesterday morning having breakfast: it was a treat. I love going out for breakfast. Dave never eats. He just has a coffee while I eat my bacon and tomato breadcake. (It just took three goes to get the text to accept ‘breadcake.’ You can tell this iPad doesn’t know Yorkshire lingo.)
I love going out for breakfast or lunch with Dave. We seem to have more interesting conversations than we do at home. This morning, amongst other things, he explained (at my request) how minesweepers work, we talked about politeness, and I told him that our small granddaughter, MsX, had said she loved me.
“I shouldn’t take any notice,” Dave said. “Three year olds don’t know what love means.”
This is the kind of robust remark you have to get used to if you’re married to an Aspie.
“I’m certainly not going to discount it,” I said. “Not many people tell me they love me.” A few people do who I wouldn’t expect to, and a few I would expect to never do. There can’t be too many people saying they love me. I’ll take all the love I can get.
Like most people, I’ve been feeling low on account of the war and the suffering caused by it. It’s so black and so bleak. Not satisfied with flattening Gaza, the bloody Israelis are now doing the same thing to Lebanon. As Marmee pointed out yesterday in the blog comments, 700,000 Lebanese civilians have been displaced. It’s also quite scary. It’s easy to see how a madman could bring on the end of the world if he decided to get frisky with nuclear weapons.
And then there is this “Labour” government of ours which is constantly thinking up new cruel ways to make the lives of refugees and asylum seekers even more difficult.
Dave said “You can do nothing to stop it or change it. You have to focus on your own life.”
And when I was getting upset about the genocide, Het told me “They want you to care, not to suffer.”
Good advice.
So when we got home from the café I painted, planted my sweet pea seeds, went for a walk, then did some gardening. Then I sat in the sunshine in my fleece and woolly hat and read The Shepherd’s Life by James Rebanks.
The view from the bench:
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| Our kitchen sink |
A friend asked me recently if I worry about planning for the future, and about death. I don’t worry, but I seem to be thinking a lot about being my age, 76. How am I supposed to spend my time at this age? Is the meaning of life different from when I was 26? Do I spend too much time thinking?
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