am loathe to admit it

but there is only Sunday until I go back to work.....

and the horror of the thought

of going back to work

is depressing and distressing me.

Especially since the weather is blah

and I just know it will become summer again at 6am on Monday.

Today is very blah, in a stay in bed way

so I did.

Much to the Fisherfullas disapproval

(but secret admiration I suspect).

When I say stay in bed I mean

a wake up call at 1.20am by a very big aftershock

(damn it).

Then a restless sleep until light arrived.

Dawn was late this morning,

arriving with a gentle rain

that was like spiderwebs resting in your hair.

Mags, the woose she is, didn't want to go across the road to

feed the Fisherfulla's parent's kittens alone.
By the time we got there
(all the way across the street)
Fisherfulla and his eldest boy had arrived to do some work.

So I grabbed the Fisherfulla's boy

for a tickle-fest and the kittens for a cuteness-fest.

I wandered home to read in bed.

I have been involved with Brian Hart's

The Came The Evening for a couple of days now.

A bleak and heartrending story set in rural Idaho

(I thought all of Idaho was rural).

Bandy, a unknowing soon to be father recently returned from

that big bad ogre Vietnam follows a path he sets out on

shooting a local cop and winding up touring prisons of the US.

Meanwhile his girlfriend Iona,

pregnant, having an affair and flees, gives birth, raises their boy

with her new boyfriend/husband.

The boy, named Tracey grows up,

visits his father Bandy in prison.

With Bandy's permission Tracey moves

back to the run down ranch in Idaho that Bandy's parents had left him.

Fixing it up for his dad's return, the son injures himself.

His mother, now a widow of 40 and

a veteran of a disappointing life arrives to hover over her son.

Small town, disjointed relationships.

Things said, not said.

People so close but too afraid.

Tangled histories, intertwined with expectation and hope

only to be sideswiped by bad choices and reality.

I got involuntarily involved because of my mood I guess.

My mood reflected in the disappointments of the characters

but each character had hoped for something else, usually better.

I imagine them as shadows with shimmering golden edges,

some wandering, some walking,

all limping at times through time.

The gaps in the story added to the gauntness of the characters.

I liked Mr Hart's story very much.