I am haunted.
Every post is haunted by a spirit that rarely appears.
My Muse, if you like.
The ghostly presence manifests itself as a woman, slightly younger than me, with dark hair and a ready wit.
She is my unofficial editor and my constant, and perceptive, critic. No typo eludes her; no split infinitive escapes her delete button.
So I freely write (sic),m knowing my typing errors and lapses of grammar will be immediately picked up on (sic again!).
This ghost, or muse, or editor is, in fact, Elisabeth, my wife.
She rarely appears in these posts, though she is a constant and a positive in my life.
So she stays in the background, no doubt biding her time, ready for the palace revolution that will sweep me aside, like a modern Robespierre.
Patiently, she tells me if I have put my trousers on back to front, or whether I am about to eat honey or olives, hot soup or ice cream. Her sense of humour is such that she is not above giving me false information at these times.
How we laugh! . . .
So this post is just to set the record straight.
It is not a love letter. I hope that my life tells her that I love her all the time. She can read it as a love letter, though, because I am writing about nobody else. But maybe this is not enough. It is difficult to tell these days, when love is conflated with passion . . .
She is one of my rocks. My rocks tie me to place and time, and thus make me feel rooted somehow, as though I belong, as though this is home
This is one of the main differences between being young and being nearly old. Life is not now focussed on the future. It is time to settle, and hoe the metaphorical corn, to travel to the metaphorical Lake Isle of Innisfree.