Not writing

I'm more relaxed. Summer is here. I don't feel the urge to write.

Except this evening, when I have just been phoning around relatives, informing them that a dearly loved aunt has died and the date of the funeral. Really, I suppose, she wasn't my aunt but merely my father's cousin. However, I was very fond of her and I will miss her sorely, even though it's been a couple of years since I saw her. Poor old Margaret.

Now it's time to sit in the garden to watch the evening light fade. I'll have a glass of wine, and read a book. Earlier, the noise of birdsong was loud enough to penetrate the earmuffs I had worn when cutting the grass. I could recognise starlings, blackbirds & robins, plus various small brown jobs which look indistinguishable to me.