Another Country Diary #8
With the perpetual dusk of an English autumn.
6/11
Dark days. I’ve been ill again, a vomiting bug this time. The year begins to pitch towards winter. Colder days. Through the window I can see the oak that stands above our hen run, still holding onto its russet leaves. The air has been still all week. Cloudy, inert days. In the United States they’ve elected that thug, that felon, that liar, that cheat, that devil—and the rest of the world trembles in anticipation. I want to be well to take solace in the small things in the world. In the beauty that counts. In small actions. The hallowing of such moments.
By four in the afternoon it feels as if the light and colour has been wrung from the sky.
7/11
I’m feeling worse, physically and existentially—fatigued and feverish. I had planned to work today, but after a burst of administrative clicking and typing, I find myself exhausted, my thoughts tangled. I still have to drive Ceci to Norwich. The beeches on the route are magnificent, glowing amber despite the low l…