Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This… as Annie Lennox sang. Song reverberating from Thursday’s Wedding Party in Greenwich.
Don’t know whether it was age, drink [lack of], or just the realisation that the kids are grown up and almost so adult that they superficially don’t need us that much; that I didn’t sleep that well overnight. Dropping Lil at the station at 5.40 for the train up to London and Chadwell Heath brought that home. Shades of Intimations of Immortality! That’s for another ramble at a later date. The lines are too full to quote verbatim in this piece but:
Coupling that with having read the BBC article on the deaths of the great and good in 2016, I start to think that we are far too gloom and doom merchants than aught else and from last night’s dreams of the Lucy Poems variety only make worry and depression self-fulfilling. Once fully awake and conscious, they disappear. I’m not a great one for thinking in the physical dark of night. That is too depressing just as is trying to cycle in the gloom of winter mornings.