My subconscious was a cheeky monkey.
I missed my train by a minute.
Stress.
I managed to get a split ticket and still had plenty of time in the end with a nifty train change on the way.
As I settled on the second train I looked up and saw this person’s reflection from further down the carriage.
I was struck by how unusual it is to see someone writing like this now.
I wondered about the stream of consciousness that was flowing from that mind through the hand to the paper and my own stream of consciousness picking that up, noticing, and continuing on its own path like the ephemerally delicate spun strands of webs caught in the sun on a dewy dawn morning.

Most of the journey was spent trying to mask the urge to cry.
As I walked the long walkways from the station to the airport check in desks it was impossible to stop the spontaneous tears that just leaked.

This was my first flight, my first trip abroad since we last travelled together. I couldn’t remember if the last one was southern Spain or Majorca. Can you remember? Both were in winter in search of a slightly better climate to help us through the uk winter months which took such a toll on you. Do you remember how hard it was? Trying to find somewhere we could manage. The huge problems of insurance that almost made it impossible. The huge logistical challenge of getting there, to the airport, arranging it to try to minimise the inevitable exhaustion. How many steps between A and B? Would it be too early, too late? You’d need to rest before we did that bit. We need to book an overnight there to be able to negotiate that bit. We need to book priority boarding. Will you be able to walk along there? Do I need to gently suggest a wheelchair? How will you take that? What if you can’t move any further? Once you stop and become exhausted that’s it, there’s nothing more I can do. You go down so quickly. You chill. Your breath becomes so laboured. Panic sets in and I try to keep calm whilst feeling helpless and desperate. You didn’t see any of that, did you? Too busy just trying to take each breath in and out was a labour of Hercules. I would wonder if it was all worth it. It always was. They became our little astonishing triumphs and enriched the patterning of our very own tapestry of our life woven together.

In the airport lounge I stopped for a coffee and watched the poor Macmillan fundraising women at their stand trying to waylay rushing travellers with their minds flying elsewhere. I went and had a chat and grounded over talk about the absurdity of the absence of funding and signed up to their scheme and headed off to my departure gate.