Sorry, but I've not had the time to write this blog until tonight, and fittingly, I'll consider time.
With not much warning, despite how I felt, we rushed across the sun splashed county to a pub in a small village to meet a talented relative who is playing in a private gig. Green hedgerows peppered with delicate white cow-parsely flowers flashed past and mayflower dominated roadside trees. Ah, England when it shines, there is nowhere quite so beautiful.
And on this day of a Royal weeding, an event planned for in great detail for many months, we sat drinking cider and enjoying young Daniel's charms. But he had only one hour so we ate and talked and he apologised for giving us so little time. I said an hour between his having set up the gig and the event itself, was perfect. He was present in every second, which made the hour rich, greater than six in the inattentive company of people who are not empathetic.
How many people do you know who ask questions, who listen, who are genuinely interested in you and your company. So often you have to endure other people's monotonous voices and uninteresting lives, yet they ask nothing of yours. How sad because life is so short. We plan for weddings, but not for the end. Not that tonight an end is in my thoughts, but that we hardly live, so much do we plan.
Ah, to bed. To sleep after a satisfying evening in sunny Somerset. Time, yes time, it is fleeting, but it is rich.