Wherever we go.

What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does.

With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.

(Extract from “And our faces, my heart, brief as photos”, by John Berger)

In the air.

S P R I N G
Forsythias and camelias are out; cherry trees and magnolias almost there. Derby popped for a visit; he is our neighbour’s ginger cat and a while ago he spent a lot of time on our doorstep – we later discovered his owners had been away and he was just lonely. He’s a cutie. Diesel hates his guts though. :)

Mangia.

Saturday was spent in and out DIY shops. Usually my heaven on earth, but today was full of frustration. In the end I managed to find what I was looking for (had to drive all the way to Basildon, though) and then back home for a warm bath and italian delivery.