So, here we are. My first little holiday since that horrendous horrendous Walpole long weekend. I have such faith that this will  be good. I can't even recognise in my mind the girl I was then. 
The last two days have been warm and full and every day I come home smiling. 
Today I did good work, and at lunchtime I allowed myself a slow wallow through Oxford Street bookshop. Just to be among the pages, and touch them. And I am so proud - I left without buying anything. But oh how I could have!
I did see a series of cards that were sort of half girl-power, half spiritual, but I really liked one of them: She loved life, and life loved her right back. And corny as it is, I feel that way. I am constantly reminded how lucky I am. How no matter all the crazy things I do and complicate things, somehow I get away with it. Somehow. 

Walter Bonatti died this week - I recall how Joe Simpson wrote about him with such reverence, and indeed he really was one of the greatest climbers of the century. 

Swimming tonight under the floodlights, the water like honey through my fingers (I was so tired I could only manage breaststroke) I felt electric. 

Minutes pulse, and there are voices in the dark.  I am packing.