Dear diary . . .

     I've been feeling quite happy the past couple of days. Why? I've played on the recorder and hammered dulcimer each morning and the notes I string together begin to sound like music . . .

     The St Peters choirs combined for Ash Wednesday Mass and imposition of ashes; so we had a lineup of four guitars, bass, piano, violin, bouzouki and me on treble/alto recorder for some songs and nine singers . . .

  
Elizaphanian's sermon is a good place to start for Lent.

     Meanwhile I'll just carry on playing music . . . feeding the cats, walking the dog, sending Kathy onto the roof to clear the chimney as the fire stopped drawing properly and we had a smoky house this morning. Cruel man sending his wife up onto the roof. I'm out of the habit of climbing onto high look-outs and have allowed myself the luxury of fear . . . I stop and think. It's the getting down that is the hardest part for me now.

     And now deciding to make a few notes of another kind here . . .

     I might be moved to browse a few more books; finish the third re-reading of The True Deceiver; continue reading the very fat GRANTA 109; breeze on through Homer and Langley and sip some more of the Power of One in which I've read some stark descriptions of bullying and I know there is more cruelty to come . . .