I Comfort Myself

Forms of comfort are required on a day for needing comfort - a day of resignations, resignation and a sense of toppling into need. I've been holding out, but today, on the way home, the need for fish pie, peas and a good glass of Chenin Blanc came over me like a retreat.

Brexit is in the air like the smell of broken drains, lingers above and around other chaos, and I care about this and about the people who are unwell - so many loves -  and I am wanting to go back to my head in my European mother's lap, to lying down on the sofa with my head in her lap whilst she strokes my hair.

Back to the child in me, then - and I need to be held whilst the world rocks, burns, plays with fire and what it does not understand. My mother is dead and Europe is breaking. And meanwhile a girl that I know is thought to be beyond rescue.

Oh but what can I do to save this! Nothing. Not one thing. And I have tried - eeking myself out across weeks, marching on Parliament like I could make a difference and rocking up each day to an office growing slowly unfinished.

Don't look for sense here. I've eaten it already - fish pie, peas and a good glass of Chenin Blanc, then a bath up to its bubbles and my warm bed.