Run against the ripe sea-wind

Doctor at a conference today so I couldn't get my results. Foot depressingly painful again, and it is hard to stand. This feels like the objective correlative for all my frustrations, so having dark Job like moods. But I spoke more cheerfully to Bob and Mum, had a few texts, and made some grinding progress on The New Idea, and pressed on with Moby-Dick.

Beth brought me home a small cupcake today, which was very sweet of her. Lorraine late home, and armed with fish and chips. We watching a programme called one born every minute about people giving birth, which was generally appalling.

Sad news at the end of the day. Rufus, Richard and Jane's beloved little dog passed on. He was a fiercely loved pet, and one of Richard's muses. It feels like ages since I went for a walk with Richard with Rufus and Holly ambling along the shoreline. Here's a poem Richard wrote about him. He was a good dog.

Rufus at Chouet

Run,
old dog,
run against
the ripe sea-wind:
celebrate your body like a young dog:

oh how my heart fills up with tears to watch
you, who was so
carelessly
youthful
once.