I haven’t left the village for a good couple of days now. Have hardly set foot out of the cottage. It’s been too wet. But the sun could’ve been blazing down and I still wouldn’t have ventured out there. I’d be too embarrassed. I’d feel the entire world was mocking me.
I’ve begun to miss my house. Which you’d think might be a good thing. What with me owning it and all. But I suspect it’s just the idea of home I miss – and that I’ve been away long enough to have forgotten that John no longer lives there. Well, there’s another little myth I’ve created for myself. The happy home. The loving husband. The imagination of the common or garden melancholic really is something to behold.