Just another week

It was a funny old week, last week. No major trauma nor major wonder, but still a bit of a rollercoaster of more memorable experiences than most weeks arrive with; mostly good, some bad. Work was stressful. The weather veered from chilly, pea-souper Edinburgh harr to just amazing - the hottest March days in Scotland ever, which is spreading general happiness among the population. J was skiing in Chamonix and persisted in sending me beautiful photos of snowy mountains and glaciers. I went along to my first amateur reading-of-creative-writing event, the Find Your Voice/Ripping Scripts end of term ceilidh - and was impressed and inspired by some of the frankly brilliant things that my fellow scribblers have written. AND I read a poem of my own in public for the first time ever, which turned out to be fun rather than traumatic. I got my haircut at a new place and it was thankfully OK. I caught up with Mum, bonding over weeding my rhubarb bed; and variously over coffee, lunch, wine and dinner with no less than four old friends I don't see often enough - one of them not for about 10 years - which was wonderful. But one shared with me a horrible revelation that's still catching at my heart. And another shared a worry that I hope will come to nothing. I ended up the week down in the allotment digging off a hangover and basking in the sunshine, and feeling a bit more grounded by the signs of the turning season.

Damson tree coming into bud.