It is full moon here and the garden is bright and shadowless at night. Some frisky golden moles have been tunneling around bushes and small trees. They aerate the earth so I don’t mind them — the smell of the dogs will probably drive them away in a week or two — but they may have destroyed all my nerine bulbs.
Went over the mountains for lunch at a French-style bistro with sober friends on Saturday, very noisy and rambunctious bunch. Ate too much cassoulet (composed stolidly of haricot beans, duck leg in confit, smoked sausage etc) and lay awake with indigestion all night. Now I am nibbling Asian baby greens with lime juice and a fraction of ginger, steaming young squashes and maize, spooning scant teaspoons of yoghurt onto grilled peaches for a treat. Healthy living, long may it last.
Grateful for sobriety, grateful for friends, grateful that spring is just around the corner. It is still very wintry here and I feel stale and chilled and frazzled. No particular reason, just that time of the year. I had a painful and sad dream about things going wrong in the coming year, muddled decisions, losses, failures — and woke up thinking of a book review on Lily King’s Father of the Rain about a woman who knows she’s guilty of being “bad at trusting the future,” but she can’t admit that this weakness is a crime against herself. Unlearning the wrongheaded lessons of the past takes time.