Post 351: Emotions on the tip of my tongue.
For three days in a row now I’ve been unable to hold back the tears, “but heaven knows I’m miserable now” — The Smiths.
Yesterday’s (blog) outpouring — poem or not — came from a simple place.
I wanted to scream… without anyone hearing.
Today feels slightly different.
It’s the second day of my Darling being back at work, and in the quiet, just a few moments — sparked by nothing more than a twist in a TV plot — it’s set me thinking again. Funny how that happens. The tv intrudes into real life.
But today is Easter Day.
The old traditions I remember as a child seem to have slipped away, quietly, over time. Swept aside by progress, I suppose. Where have the local events gone? The sense of something shared? A neighbourly thing.
Even the queues at the local bakery for hot cross buns — now replaced by year-round availability, as if that somehow makes them better.
When did that become a good idea?
And what happened to the simple current bun — no cross, no fuss — just as it was?
Now we’re offered every variation under the sun. Walnut and strawberry jam flavoured buns… I’m sure someone enjoys them, but they’re not what you expected when you quickly and innocently reached for one.
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The gift exchange today was something else entirely.
A real moment.
I’d gone into town with Big Sis and Bruv-in-law yesterday to find something special — a couple of silver bracelets for my Darling’s growing bracelet collection. We ended up in the oldest jewellers in town — the kind with a doorman, the kind where the door is opened foryou. Not my natural habitat, if I’m honest.
But it went well.
We found exactly what we needed, and I left quietly pleased with myself.
Back home, the gifts were exchanged.
My Darling carefully unwrapped her ChloBo boxes, as if defusing something delicate and precious. Meanwhile, mine looked like it might actually explode — a huge, ribbon-tied creation that took some effort to get into.
Inside…
A Hotel Chocolat dark ostrich egg.
Two pounds of it. Handcrafted. Beautiful. Ridiculous, in the best possible way.
Each half filled with its own treasures, wrapped in gold foil and luxury paper. A proper showstopper.
I was genuinely gobsmacked.
And the fact it’s dark chocolate — practically healthy, I’ll tell myself — makes it all the better.
Smiles all round.
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In the background, life carries on.
The bed situation still looms, though one step forward has been made — the old double bed will soon be gone, collected by a friend. One less thing to think about.
And then, small victories.
I found myself in the garage, feeding Mr Vicious, and decided — for no grand reason — to tidy up. A bit of hoovering, sweeping up after that darn cat. Just a bit of sorting. Nothing major.
But it felt like something.
A small reclaiming of space. Of control, maybe. A small piece of me back.
I’ll probably get told off for it, but never mind — the deed is done.
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Four hours pass so quickly.
Another measured sip of morphine keeps things steady, but the tiredness lingers.
And the thoughts return.
I’m not the guy I was years ago.
I’m not the guy I was six months ago.
I’m not even the guy I was before Tenerife, a few weeks ago.
That’s the truth of it.
Even something as simple as trying to break into that chocolate egg defeated me today. My hands just wouldn’t do it.
What’s happening to me?
Will there come a day when even the smallest things — a spoon into a crème brûlée — become a challenge?
It’s a strange place to find yourself, measuring life in moments like that.
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But even here — especially here — there is something else.
People.
There are friends who show up, again and again, in ways both big and small. Messages, support, presence — often without even knowing how much it matters.
They help me more than they realise.
And that matters more than I can properly say.
Oh how lucky I am.
Tomorrow will come, as it always does. And when it does, we’ll begin again — one step, one moment at a time.
Good night.
