This Thursday saw the 39th anniversary of my father's plane crash. He and his friend flew two pilots to France from Jersey to collect a plane, and on the way back to the island, my father's plane crashed into the sea, just off the coast of France. They were lucky, obviously because they survived fairly intact, and also because the other plane that had just been collected circled the area for as long as possible, enabling them to eventually be picked up. He has been a wonderful father, and every year I thank my lucky stars that we've had another year with him in our lives.
Yesterday, the sun was shining, I was feeling relaxed as I'd just submitted a short story, and had worked through the next module for my assignment, when R got ready to leave for work. "I hope you're going to relax now," he said. "I'm going to lie in the sun and read," said I, intending to do just that.
Two hours later, I did get to sit outside, having moved furniture around in the house, collected J from his Sunday job, and sorted through mountains of paperwork in the shed, in an attempt to gain some sort of control over it all. Now everything (well, pretty much everything) has been placed in a newly labelled file.
Today, I just want to finish editing another short story, then I'm doing nothing, abso-flippin-lutely nothing.
P.S. R has just phoned. He's on his way home and cheerfully looking forward to us planting the carrots in the veg patch. Have you seen how tiny those seeds are? There are millions in a packet. Groan. Maybe I should lock myself back inside the shed?