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It’s one of those days that just doesn’t get light.

I imagine these only happen where we are in the middle of the Black Country, I know it’s not true, but it fits with the tale. We are in the middle of this island, as far from the sea as we can be, and at this time of year, as far it seems, from the light as we can be too.

I am cold.

And instead of doing some sort of activity that will get me moving and warm me up, I too become an island. My outlying regions see the light, but most of me doesn’t as I hunch over first my sewing, now my computer, and later my sewing again.The centre of my being is a shape filled with concentration, like that focus of light in the history paintings that says “Look at this bit, this is where it’s all going on!”

I feel grimly romantic. My needle threaded with sparkly lengths stabbing the old derelict underwear in my hands. There is the darkness of this once-black garment, oddly, the fact that it is no longer black, makes it seem darker. And here I am, forlornly cheering it up with twinkle. Optimistic, but resigned to the truth. It’s knackered and no amount of sparkle will make it otherwise. It is clinging on… or rather… she is clinging on…

I’m clinging on too… I’ve had a new haircut, and bits of it have been dyed purple. Or Aubergine, I was told. Aubergine seems overly cheery, fancy, putting on airs and graces it hasn’t got. But it’s too late, even if I call it purple, it still smacks of middle aged woman clinging on.