I just finished a rather lovely dinner that Sarge made. I eat, but I don’t cook. Last night, while watching Life Is Beautiful for the first time (what took me so long?), I ate another meal Sarge made. And I cried. Twice. But that was the film, and had nothing to do with his cooking. When it’s my turn to cook, we get take-out, which is probably safer for all involved. I have tried to cook. I have the burn…
I’ve been away from the computer for the last few days. Away from the computer, but not without my notebook. I started writing the lines that make up this post while on the train to Glasgow on Thursday. I like trains, and I love writing while in transit. Something about the rhythm of the journey colours the words, knowing that that there will be some sort of evidence of change from beginning to end. I’ve loved notebooks for as long…
