Tatty (112 days to go)
by Max Akroyd
That was the week that wasn’t really. Baby got la grippe and his sunny nature was sunk in a sea of gunk. When not worrying about him getting ill-er in doctors’ waiting rooms, we observed his symptoms and listened to his tugging breath in the dark, small hours.
That was clearly that for long working days and short, but restful, nights. Mundane things loomed up in stature and came down hard on authentic progress, which became a fractured, ad hoc affair.
But there’s a rumour going around. Just subtle hints, the merest suggestion that the growing season is about to commence. A flurry of birds disrupts the library-quiet winter air. Their song is more ambitious now and adorns the bare trees with spring’s allure. And affirms conclusively that light always means hope.