Days Are Where We Live

(From the Philip Larkin poem, Days.)

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I do not have the will to write of the Paris attacks, nor the grief of loss, nor the vitriol that has been spewing out over the internet with calls of revenge and more bloodshed.  No.  I can’t read or write of it.  I’m hollowed out.

Outside of my window, right now, the wind is screeching , as it screeched all of yesterday and late into the night.  The rain came with it and seeped into my little mud room and now we know why it’s called a mud room.

Yesterday, during the storm and when I felt raw and anxious, I tucked myself back into my bed with a stack of books but after a few pages I sighed, closed the books, stacked them under the night table, and went straight to just about the only thing that can make me smile these days:  You Tube videos of Father Ted episodes.

I give you the housekeeper, Mrs. Doyle   🙂

 


4 thoughts on “Days Are Where We Live

  1. My mom watches all those old British shows on Saturday night, on PBS. I don’t dare call and disrupt her Saturday evening ritual. She doesn’t know how to use the DVR.

    1. I know. When I lived in the US I used to set aside every Friday evening as “Brit Com” night and I loved it. Little did I know that within a few years, I would be living here! I even saw Dawn French in a nearby town a few years back. Life takes such strange turns.

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