Day Twenty-eight



Wednesday 22nd April, just to get oriented. It's good to practice. My dear friend, dead some years now after a period of dementia, had the newspaper delivered daily and would note the day and date. Long after she was capable of caring for herself, when she was locking herself out of the house and constructing fanciful stories about being thrown out by people who stayed inside laughing at her, she could confidently tell you the day and date. Unless I'm using my diary assiduously I tend to be a bit hazy. And in my diary it's written in red on this date, 'Last day of lockdown?' We won't dwell on that, though I'm sad for those who are finding it a struggle and grateful my life goes well as things are.

It's a quiet day of simple pleasures: gardening on a sunny morning, thinning out the row of poppies which I planted on the first day of the rahui and which have come up too thick to thrive, planting some broad beans and mowing the lawn; reading and dozing in the sunporch after lunch; a few calls to friends; a bike ride; knitting and listening to the radio.

I'm noticing my sense of smell: the peach-scented moisturiser my sister gave me, the mustiness of my gardening shirt which needs a wash, freshly cut grass, the cold fur of the cat when she comes in at night, freshly ground coffee, feijoas in a bowl on the kitchen bench, turpentine from the brush drying in the laundry, the tang of marigolds as I dead-head them.

That also comes through into my sense of taste. If I take the trouble I really enjoy food, but the reverse it also true. I'm burning things a little more often and the taste of scorched fishcakes is acrid and unpleasant and lingers a bit too long. I need to plan a few tasty meals, otherwise I'm searching for a sweet treat too often. The question has been asked, 'Will we be fitter or fatter by the time the restrictions end?' I hope I'll be fitter.