Philosophical Thoughts

I stood inside the door of the Aldeburgh theatre checking tickets yesterday afternoon prior to a concert, while freezing winds whipped around my legs and head. I knew so many people who then stopped to chat to me that I was distracted from quite how cold it was. So why am I surprised to find that both my upper and lower respiratory tracts are inflamed and mucousy? I had plans for the day: number one was to prune all my roses, a gentle job in the sunshine despite the still very cold air; and two, to support pancreatic cancer research by way of a quiz and supper in the evening. It's a bummer. I hate dropping out of things, letting people down, but givien my important date at Papworth next Tuesday I feel I must protect myself from worse. Another long, long day with more to come. Is it just me or is this Arctic winter beginning to drag a bit?

I watched a film last night, randomly picked on Netflix. Well not randomly: surfing through the choices on offer I saw one about the American writer and critic Joan Didion and I was intrigued. I'm embarrassed to say I've never read anything by her, or not that I can remember, and I suddenly wanted very badly to know about her. I was enchanted by the contrast now at age 84 between physical frailty and intellectual robustness. She's a fascinating woman whose work has taken her to many places, philosophically rather than geographically though she did go to war-torn San Salvador to find out what the US government was really up to there. "Was it frightening?" she was asked by the interviewer. "Was it frightening?" she repeated, eyebrows and hands flying skywards. "I've never been so terrified in my life." I shall start with The Year of Magical Thinking, and move onto Slouching Towards Bethleham which now I come to think of I did read years ago. But can I remember it? Not a word.

I love this time of day, early evening in winter when the sky is still light and any wind has dropped leaving everything still and calm. Through my massive kitchen windows to the right of me I can see the unmoving dark shapes of bare branches creating silhouettes against the pale background. The flightpath from Stansted must have changed because there is plane after plane in the distance, soaring upwards to disappear beyond my ceiling, leaving contrails in the sky. After the Russian crash I'm loth to stare too long in case I have the power to bring them down. It's all so safe and secure, but as I write those words I immediately think of those whose environments are anything but and I feel bad. How lucky we are who who live in this corner of Suffolk away from friction and fear. But then I remember that Putin's planes and nuclear weapons will come this way, straight across the North Sea, and feel almost relieved, the balance righted again.