I dream that I am trussed up in a pink empire-waist dress, unable to breathe as I am twirled around an overly warm bejeweled room by a masked man. (Obviously binging on Regency romance episodes is influencing my unconscious.)
I wrote a list to recall what makes me happy. It's hard to not just stay in bed all day what with lockdown and the daily count of infections rising exponentially in Ireland and elsewhere. Still I write: walking a new road, the Guardian list of anticipated books for 2021, birdsong, flowers, candles, incense, yoga, baths, libraries and bookshops, a good book (like, duh), chocolate cake for breakfast, the alpenglow on the hills at dusk (a boon of frosty weather), my new Prussian blue velvet jumpsuit, pearl drop earrings from my mother-in-law, letters from friends, watching my husband playing chess with our niece, the moment of relief when the codeine hits and your period pain leaves your body, shaping a piece of writing and feeling the momentum of an interesting thought.