Tiny joys

The world seems abominable at the moment, but I smiled this Easter weekend. I saw two rainbows yesterday, one in the afternoon, a portion, stubby and thick, and one in the evening, a thin huge arc. And today a goldfinch as high on a tree as you can be; starlings that could be female blackbirds until you get close, a chaffinch singing its heart out and two princely beautiful male eider ducks. The world seemed almost bearable again. By the way, a broken rainbow is called a watergaw in Scots.

Lining up

When we were kids we lined up our Easter eggs on the window sill in order of size. By the time you took the egg out of its enormous packaging it was half the bulkiness. Separating the chocolate halves without breaking them was a skill. And finding the wee packet of smarties, or other treats inside, always such a thrill.

The opposite of the moon

I'm not the first to have observed that the fascinating and moving rescue of the Chilean miners has been reminiscent of watching a moon landing. A grainy capsule, images being broadcast from an eerie, alien world, except this is down (almost half a mile) instead of up (250 000 miles). I can't help but worry for the last man to be rescued, waiting on his own for Phoenix to come sliding back for him. I've been thinking of Zola's Germinal, which we read in our second year at uni. I recall re-reading it for an exam, my cousin and I had gone to a caravan in the Trossachs for Easter and would go jogging first thing, study all day and get tipsy at night in front of the cosy stove. Those were the days. Good luck, brave miners, I hope by morning you are all 33 safely out, back with your loved ones. It must be sweet agony for those still waiting, 13 I think. I read this piece in Indy with interest. The book deal is already being sewn up. And Oakley - who donated the sunglasses to the emerging miners - are getting major free advertising. I am curious to know how long they have to wear dark glasses for, how long does it take to readjust? And not to dampen the joy of it all, but ... I hope these miners make a fortune from selling their stories to the media. They deserve it.

Words

Someone somewhere said that in the novel I did not make enough of the brain fog you get with ME. Maybe Helen Fleet was not so affected, or maybe she wanted to underline the physical (you would need to ask her), but I certainly have real problems with concentration, especially if I am preoccupied by something. Whatever that something is - and especially if it is bad, but also if it is good - my head is expanded with that one thought and my concentration is zapped: I forget things, I drop things, I become ditzy as hell, I can't find words, I'm sure I appear dim. This has been such a week, exhausted by Easter family stuff (which has been lovely), and stressed with eye appointments and some other stuff, city dwelling, I have found myself, at least three times, in important conversations, searching frantically for the right word, and it is simply not there, not even a whisper: the word I want has been quietly erased from my bank of words. And today I remembered a Bowie song, 'Words' I thought it was called and John Lennon had written it, but some googling showed me it is 'Across the Universe'. I get so moved by 80s' (or 70s') music, this is what I was listening to before I got ill, and after I got ill. A lump in my throat. Always.