Whereupon the reader hears about the quietness

It’s very quiet.

Nobody is sitting in the garden reading a book without joining in the conversation, despite travelling thousands of miles to see his daughter. Nobody is tidying up after supper, despite being told not to because she is on her holidays. Nobody has gone for a little walk down the road to look at the sea. Nobody is telling me a bit of gossip I missed about someone at home. Nobody is opening a bottle of wine, or enjoying a can of Monkey Beer, which is quite the nicest beer in the world apparently, so nice he insisted he had to pay for it. Nobody is talking about the nice meal, which was well cooked, and it was fine that it was fish again.

Nobody is intently watching Himself barbeque the steaks, looking back at us to see what we think. Nobody is sitting quietly, listening to me as I rant about work, keeping an eye out to see would Himself roll his eyes at her.

He was their ally. I kept catching him at it. Having a little joke with them at my expense.

And when I'd express my outrage at him he'd just give me a look that said, Get up the yard. You muppet.

It was strange at times. I felt like I was playing myself in my own movie.

But I was one of the minor characters.

Very unnerving, I can tell you.

Thank goodness I have a blog.

What would I do otherwise?

Nobody is sitting around the table after dinner, talking about the war. Or remembering stories from our families. Or bickering with each other over something the Queen Dad did, or Queenie, or the Queen Mum.

I’d get a different look when that happened.

Himself has a very complex body language. Which I’m starting to learn.

I wonder what mine is like?

Some time is spent thinking about this.

I’m probably just pretty verbal.

I just wrote my first stage direction!

Some time is spent thinking about this.

There’s no effing money in theatre.

Except… I was reading a review of a book (this is how slack I am) about John Osbourne, the angry young man, and it turns out that he made a fortune from the theatre.

I wonder how he did that?

Some time is spent thinking about this.

Nah, don’t know. Time to move on.

Time passes.

Beckett was rich too, of course.

Some time is spent thinking about the last two weeks.
And a bit of a weep is had.
A very bittersweet one.
And then a train went past. And a dog howled at it.

I kid you not.

And the train went by forever, like they know it does now.

I feel better now.

Even just remembering is making it less painful.

The quietness.

Then she heard the hiss of a car passing quietly down the road in front of the house.

Sorry reader, I couldn’t resist that.

Goodnight. Safe home.

All of you.