I was writing to friends in the UK the other day. I met them at the hospital where he was having radiotherapy at the same time as I was. A kinder, lovlier couple one could not wish to meet. Our friendship will be the sort where we keep in touch and occasionally meet and always think of each other and how the other is getting on.
I apologised for not being in touch for a few weeks. I had absolutely no excuses. It's just that the days seem to disappear so quickly and there seems to be so much to fit into them. As I've said before I originally started my blog as a away of telling friends and family what I was up to without sending almost daily emails and it worked for a while. Now Blogland is a whole new land I inhabit with a new set of friends and even more emails to write.
Don't get me wrong. I love writing and keeping in touch. It's just a question of actually doing it to so many people. I write daily (almost) to my brother and Pat and Dave on the Island and at least once a week to my favourite Goddaughter and to so many more. I chat on Skype (by message rather than voice) to friends daily and seem to spend hours on the phone too.
I am a really really lucky person. But because I am lucky I also have full days. I cannot imagine the horror of loneliness so many people endure for whatever reason. Actually that's not true. I can imagine it. When I was reading for the English bar I used to have to spend weekends in London because of the quaint tradition of eating a minimum number of dinners in my Inn of Court (all barristers in England had to belong to one of the four Inns of Court). After one dinner I took myself to the theatre in Picadilly to see Alan Bennett's play Oh What a Lovely War. When I came out around midnight, Picadilly was teeming with thousands of people. I felt the utter dejection of lonliness. To be surrounded by so many people and be so alone was, to me, one of the worst moments of my life. I have never forgotten it. I decided at that moment that I couldn't cope with staying in London and abandoned my bar studies. I can not recall feeling particularly lonely since then whether on my own or in a crowd.
Don't get me wrong. I love writing and keeping in touch. It's just a question of actually doing it to so many people. I write daily (almost) to my brother and Pat and Dave on the Island and at least once a week to my favourite Goddaughter and to so many more. I chat on Skype (by message rather than voice) to friends daily and seem to spend hours on the phone too.
I am a really really lucky person. But because I am lucky I also have full days. I cannot imagine the horror of loneliness so many people endure for whatever reason. Actually that's not true. I can imagine it. When I was reading for the English bar I used to have to spend weekends in London because of the quaint tradition of eating a minimum number of dinners in my Inn of Court (all barristers in England had to belong to one of the four Inns of Court). After one dinner I took myself to the theatre in Picadilly to see Alan Bennett's play Oh What a Lovely War. When I came out around midnight, Picadilly was teeming with thousands of people. I felt the utter dejection of lonliness. To be surrounded by so many people and be so alone was, to me, one of the worst moments of my life. I have never forgotten it. I decided at that moment that I couldn't cope with staying in London and abandoned my bar studies. I can not recall feeling particularly lonely since then whether on my own or in a crowd.
So I think if I could have a universal wish the abolition of loneliness would be very high on my list.
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