There is a #53. It will describe a trip to Treherbert, ex-coal mining Valleys town in South Wales where J & me took a trip to see how life goes down there, and research for a screenplay I now seem to have abandoned.
Today, however, is DAY #ONE of trying to write again. I would like to be knee deep in another screenplay but, until inspiration hits hard, I will practice here. I’m going to pull up a photograph and start there.
Dawn laser-ing through our window a few days ago.
When you live with someone, mornings are shared – tea brought, mutual state of exhaustion discussed, sleep left by the sandman noted.
While J was away, mornings were lonely moments where getting out of bed/washing/feedingmyself&kids/dressing/getting out the front door became suffused with that grey tinted mild sorrow that being alone and coping brings.
*I typed mild horror and it self-corrected to sorrow. Either is right.
We now live high above the city in the part of a Victorian house that was once the roof. Few houses on our street have converted their lofts so, from a distance, you can recognise our house because it looks like it has had a shed craned onto it.
Our shed affords us a wide view of the south east of Bristol. It is not a wonderful view, but the benefit of height means the minutiae are removed – what we see are blocks of colour and birds, the weather in wide-view, morning river mist rising from the Avon, the distant Lansdown hills curving toward Bath.