Don’t think I’ve ever cheered a Supreme Court’s judge’s ruling before.
Seven. It’s a prime number. Is that important? It’s odd. Is that? In some cultures it’s lucky. It has a nice, round, feel. It is the number of years since you left.
It feels like a point to turn around, in that roundness. In some ways I can pick any point, hold it stationary, have all else revolve around it. Pick that point as I (or you) then; we have never moved, everything else spinning in chaotic dance around us. And I have never left your side; for in that dance you cannot be gone away. Yet, somehow, you are.
The number doesn’t matter. I still love you.
Once a year Heather and I head to Chester, for theatre, history and to see the monkeys (also known as nephews). This year was no different, and so we found ourselves hanging around Euston waiting for a train. Heather wouldn’t let me go in the bookshop so it’s probably for the best the train soon arrived and we were on our way.