Finally I took a photograph of our new house. It looks like something out of a Hammer Horror movie, I know. I love that. It is right up on top of the Cotswolds and it is very, very cold in this place. We don't have any curtains or carpets and the heating doesn't work properly and the place is a mass of drafts ..... Yet some how it suits us quite well. We bought the house four years ago when we expected to have more children to fill it. There are a lot of empty rooms but I don't think we'd have the energy to sell it now and get something more practical. I feel like I'll remember this period of my life for ever. The cold, the silence, the long, long days. My husband has gone away for work and my son and I are snowed in here. It isn't a problem because we have everything we need for the moment. I don't see anyone or speak to anyone. I don't answer the phone. It is easier like that. If I see anyone then they'll ask me whether I had a good Christmas and then I won't know whether to say, 'Yes, fine thanks.' Or whether to say, 'No actually I had a miscarriage and actually this is the fifth baby that we've lost.' If I say that they'll look at me in disbelief. I won't blame them for that. I don't believe it either. Perhaps the thaw will come tomorrow. So many people have posted lovely messages on this blog. That helps a lot. So odd that people miles away that I've never met should be so kind. Thank you very, very much.
Finally I took a photograph of our new house. It looks like something out of a Hammer Horror movie, I know. I love that. It is right up on top of the Cotswolds and it is very, very cold in this place. We don't have any curtains or carpets and the heating doesn't work properly and the place is a mass of drafts ..... Yet some how it suits us quite well. We bought the house four years ago when we expected to have more children to fill it. There are a lot of empty rooms but I don't think we'd have the energy to sell it now and get something more practical. I feel like I'll remember this period of my life for ever. The cold, the silence, the long, long days. My husband has gone away for work and my son and I are snowed in here. It isn't a problem because we have everything we need for the moment. I don't see anyone or speak to anyone. I don't answer the phone. It is easier like that. If I see anyone then they'll ask me whether I had a good Christmas and then I won't know whether to say, 'Yes, fine thanks.' Or whether to say, 'No actually I had a miscarriage and actually this is the fifth baby that we've lost.' If I say that they'll look at me in disbelief. I won't blame them for that. I don't believe it either. Perhaps the thaw will come tomorrow. So many people have posted lovely messages on this blog. That helps a lot. So odd that people miles away that I've never met should be so kind. Thank you very, very much.
5 comments:
I hope your son is happy and will make you smile tomorrow. I hope your physical pain is diminishing and that you are coping with your feelings now. I hope that you will throw crumbs out for the birds tomorrow.
"Fine thanks" hides a lot that isn't ready to be shown, but I am sure I wouldn't be able to say that now. I suppose your husband is having to find an answer to the same question.
Still thinking of you; still holding you in my heart.
Alice, I *love* it. It looks romantic, in a dark and rainy evening kinda way, which suits my mood. I'd also be up for curling up in blankets in front of a fire and not having to answer to anyone.
I hope you find some peace and creativity there. And I'm glad it comes with a computer. Thinking of you.
Your home looks just like the refuge that you need. I don't think I would ever leave. I think of you often and hope that you are getting through each day. (I won't presume with less pain, but I hope.)
Your books have been so enjoyable, I have ordered them for a couple of friends. Both are English and now reading them. They say you make them homesick for England of their childhood, a very high compliment I think.
I love your house. It's so poetic. Beautiful.
The cold, snowy solitude. Sometimes the nature around us can be very supportive in echoing exactly how we feel. My place of connection was the shore. I'd feel a solidarity in the relentlessness of the crashing waves. That sand never could catch a break. Exactly the same in my life.
I've been thinking of you.
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