Despite a long night's sleep, awakening late, I felt fatigued, not quite back into my body. I'm still not fully recovered from the shock of the nose bleed, not as resilient as I was in times past. Clare was up before me, cooking pancakes for breakfast, and I did little apart from reading the news for the rest of the morning. Last night I had a call from cousin Godfrey's daughter Tegwen inviting us to a surprise Sunday lunch in a pub near Nelson, near where I grew up to celebrate the 80th birthday of my cousin Ros. A great opportunity to meet family members related to other families I've not met.
I didn't feel up to going to the Cathedral for the Solemn Requiem Mass at eleven nor to St German's by car for the lunchtime Mass. I just had to make my prayers for the dead alone. Looking for Ros' address to send a card, I opened a digital address file that must be twenty years old, which has been added to but not pruned. That's the point when you realise how many family members on your mailing list have died; parents, in-laws, uncles, aunts and cousins. A very salutary thing to do on All Souls' Day.
When I went out to the shops to buy a birthday card I realised how fragile I was feeling, wondering if my reactions were sharp enough to drive safely. It was enough to persuade me to call Tegwen and send my apologies for missing the celebration. I'm forced to accept my limitations. So disappointing.
I walked for an hour and a half in the park. Fresh air cleared my head but didn't really invigorate me today. After supper, I continued writing Grandpa Jack's story. There were details to investigate and add into the story, to make the portrayal of the background plausible. It made me realise how little I know about the history and geography of the USA. Interesting as much as time consuming. Writing a story is a source of pleasure in several different ways. It means I can get carried away, and despite the desire to get to bed earlier, I rarely succeed.
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