Things are going to change around here. I began work this morning, and those precious first few hours of the day before the world encroaches which had been the sole ownership of this diary are to be given, now, to the novel I’m editing for serialisation. It’s called, The Moderns. I’ll say more about it once I’ve got a launch date in sight. Instead, this diary will have to find its place squeezed in between getting dressed and going out - this morning to run errands and pick up B’s girlfriend and be back in time for Sheryl, an hour of somatic experiencing with the master.

Shall we check back in to this weekend? I got back on the LIVE horse with S.E. Reid on Saturday, and as well as learning of the gentleness of her faith, the brilliance of her brain and mighty loving nature of her heart, the event solved a puzzle. Ever since I downed tools at the end of June, closing my workspace as I ran for the train from Penzance to London, Heathrow to Nice, I’ve felt drugged. As in fifteen jellies and a valium to boot. Unable to raise my head, open my eyes, find even an inch of energy. I thought initially, okay, I’m on holiday, this is what happens, the year catches up, and, I’d no idea how much I’d been putting in. All of which is relevant and true. But it carried on. No matter how much I slept, and I slept a lot, no matter how little I did, and I did very little, the malaise, the fatigue, the dragging my limbs through sludge persisted.

It persisted as friends came and left, as the cacophony of yoot was replaced with the quiet of just the five of us, even as I packed my bags to come home. It’s travel, said Andy. You always feel weird when you return, which I do, it’s true. Maybe I’m deficient in iron I said to Margaret on a voice note, worrying that something was really wrong. And then Saturday swung around and with it a scheduled LIVE interview with Sally Reid. About 30 minutes before we were due to go on, my adrenaline kicked in. Holy sweet mother of Mary. That was it. For 6 weeks, the tap had been switched to off, quite rightly too, we all know the damage of living permanently on a rush. The adrenals suffer, the kidneys wilt, the nerves become fraught, it can’t go on, but without it, my god how I slumped. I’d forgotten. The tap switched on, the rush resumed through the pipes of my system, that drug which I love, to which I know I’m addicted and hey presto, I landed. So, thanks, Sally. You brought me back into the room.

Okay. Gotta go. Appointments loom. B and I went blackberry picking over the weekend, just to say that too. It felt ancient. As long as there have been hands and thorns there’s been blackberry picking season, fingers smarting from the stings of nettles entwined, spiders tickling, fat buzzing flies leaping into fury as we harvest. We made crumble, apples falling into our hands from the tree. B is reading Braiding Sweetgrass. They spoke of only taking us much as we needed. Their understanding stretches through centuries.

Eleanor

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