It’s a grey and cold Sunday afternoon here in Southern England. There’s very little light in the sky. In fact, there are just overcast bleak sheets of cloud covering which makes everything look so dull and it makes me want to fold up inside.
I have taken Pickles out for her walk and she was happy to meet up with kindred souls of the dog world. She ran in circles with another spaniel and then made her way back to me with big ribbons of slobber hanging from her mouth. She doesn’t mind the grey sky at all. Nor is she vain about her slobber. She is just joyful and happy. I jammed my hands back into my coat pockets and pulled my scarf around my neck and trudged on down the path — with my happy dog behind me.
I have been spending time working in my new studio space this week. There’s much work to be done in the flat and I started with washing floors, which Pickles did not enjoy at all:
She left me to my own devices and sat in the kitchen pantry all by herself to sulk in private:
The fundraiser for my dear friend, Carol, is going very well. I spoke with Carol this week just before her chemo appointment. She assured me that she really didn’t find shaving her head all that traumatic — that she kind of likes being shorn — and that it makes life so much easier. She has enough to worry about, she says, and not having hair is just one less hassle. She is just a love and has the best sense of humour. I am always reassured after speaking with her but somehow I think it’s supposed to be the other way around.