Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 282

I’m sitting in the garden in the glorious sun after having stuffed myself full of breakfast cake, a double espresso, lots of water, vitamins and paracetamol. Although I feel dreadful, it seems to me that sitting en plein air will probably do more for my healing and mental health than sitting inside.

There appears to be some bizarre mating ritual going on in the gardens around me, of a chainsaw off to the left and a jack hammer to my right. I somehow doubt that these star-crossed lovers will ever find their way to each other, no matter how pleading and insistent their staccato vibrations are. In all seriousness, it’s a reflection of an ever more pressured society that Sundays aren’t the peaceful days they used to be. We all need to be working all the time to keep our heads above water.

We are all taking friends’ advice about resting while we’re so unexpectedly ill with C19. I think all three of us find this quite difficult because we’re used to pushing on, used to working until what we think needs to be done gets done, and then some more because there’s always something in the house or garden that we want to change/fix. But now is different. We’re letting our bodies have a say for once. Because we want to get out of this in one piece. No matter how inconvenient the timing of the disease is.

When I wrote this on my phone a few minutes ago, it didn’t look quite so short, but hey ho. I’m not going to sit in this office trying to find more to say.

Back out into the sunshine.

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