Appending love from blackberries

Funny that there should have been a lover for Bessy hiding in the blackberry. He didn't know he was in there and she had no idea she was searching for him and everything appears to have happened without either really understanding what. I guess that's what happens.

Margaret has gone to visit a school friend. They tell each other that time hasn't moved on and all the machinations of the universe are simply the workings of the bowels of that chap they can't stand who knows all the answers. Which, I guess, says something about knowing too much in a world that stands still.

Felix had misplaced his right foot as I approached this morning for a cup of tea in the rain. For some time now he has had the feeling that parts of his body simply don't want to be with him anymore. I suggested that this is what happens - we fall in and we fall out of friendship - and if he liked he could appropriate me as part of his body, if this helped. I don't think he could think of a use for me so we drank our tea like the old friends we are, sharing a bench rather than a soul.

George and Cookie were absent from work when I arrived at the surgery. I've no idea why so I got on without them. I thought this was a shame and then thought I ought to wait and see, in case it wasn't. And then I thought it wasn't, except I thought I ought to wait and see if it was, in the end, just in case. And then I thought about blackberries and thought about love and small, beautiful things that come and go when one is least expecting it.