Some Romantic Evening...

Or perhaps that should be some part of a romantic evening...

Since girlhood one of my favourite parts of the day has been the dwimmer. As a child, that part of an early summer evening, when it was a bit too dark to read, but too light to sleep, used to tug at some part of my inner core. It still does. My mum used to despair because I wouldn't want even my light summer-weight curtains drawn - I wanted to lie in bed and stare out at the evening dwindle, first watching the clouds baa-ing across the sky as the hand of some great artist added water to the colour, changing it so subtly from a deep blue to the palest of aquamarine. Then the sky would become an opalescent white, and it was at that point that I would feel the earth spin on its axis. Traffic noises would become oh so romantic, as they heralded the movements of strangers to some exquisite homecoming, electric lights just starting to peep, as lovers waltzed their ways. Somewhere out there, something would pull at me, whispering to me of the joys of the night, the promise of different lives just waiting to touch my own. Not some silly girlish imaginings of romantic love just waiting to happen; but a real sense of my part in the Universe, no matter how miniscule. A sense of hope that dawn has never brought to me, I don't think.

I'll make one exception there - of the dawning of the day that saw my son arrive in the world.

For so many years I lost that precious time, the feeling of wonder and mystery that late evening brings through open curtains and open windows. A different home, a different family, so very different circumstances, but once again I find myself now lying in bed, listening to those same beats of promise, that same experience of the earth turning. The view from my window has changed, yet still the sky's dance continues unchanged. And my heartstrings, so firmly wrapped around those I love, feel as though they are waiting to be stretched just a little further, just a little wider.

Somewhere out there are the people I used to imagine, waltzing with hair glowing with silver rather than the autumn colours they used to have. The night's magic is not lost, it is tangible, and makes my heart yearn for things I cannot imagine. I am content and happy, and have not lost my trust in or love of the dwimmer. It is my time.

Socks

What? 2 in one day???

Yup socks.

I've been knitting these darn (as opposed to darned, a pune or play on words, d'you see*) socks for months now. I'm just about to turn the heel on the second one.

No you can't see them. They won't be photographed till they're finished, and that won't be for some time I suspect. But they're a nice, respectable shade of blue. Air force blue (Royal Air Force, of course).

*Sources, if I can remember them, include Blackadder, Dawn French, and possibly Terry Pratchett. Or maybe Douglas Adams? All very, very funny. If only my memory was as reliable.

What a slacker.

Same as all my diaries from the year dot, ever. Entries for birthdays and anniversaries carefully and studiously penned in on day 1; medical records, insurance details and inside leg measurements on day 2; day 3 would include a few descriptive sentences, day 4 two sentences and by day 5 one word entries: "rained"; "bored"; "tired". Day 6? Blank, just like all the other entries would be till the end of the year.

Then New Year, new stocking and hey - new diary!

You'd have thought that by 45 years of age I'd have outgrown that, wouldn't you. Blogging is different to diary entries, isn't it, it's life-affirming, interesting, a hobby, palliative even - yeah right.

*Heaves a big sigh* Actually I love blogging, when my head, hands or other body parts will allow. I'm just very forgetful.

Today's lesson in life was watching a moody - moody? Well I thought so - disengaged youngster running a race he had no chance of doing other than losing outright. Yet he ran. He was shouted and clapped as he cried his way over the line - but he didn't give up. A transparent shade ran with him, a little girl with uncoordinated legs which slammed out to the sides, who not only had to contend with losing every race, but with listening to the laughter and jeers from her peers at her distractingly poor gait. She ran alongside him, in his shadow and he in hers, and they cried together. Was it bad sportsmanship to cry, babyish behaviour or just a strop? Probably; but unlike the girl he ran to the bitter end, and left her falling behind with her shoulders bent; and then he ran again. Never a giver-upper. And when the stress of taking part was over, and the finalists were racing, he sat on the wet grass with his friends and cheered on his classmates and youngers and olders and added wings to their feet with his claps and cheers.

He'll never win sportsman of the year; but he won't need to, so long as he remembers that he holds his courage in his heart, and that he is beautiful. Maybe he'll listen to those that tell him so, in a way that that girl never did, and still doesn't.