A Lord Byron medallion

It is 8.46. I have done all the important stuff that needs doing  and am now waiting for Julia to emerge, fragrant and lovely, from the shower. We will then discuss breakfast and have a leisurely start to the day. It is Sunday. She will work this afternoon and I will write.

Meanwhile, I have a choice of activities. I could read more of the book about the Lusitania, I could start the poems I made notes about last night, or I could . . .

And there’s the problem, so many choices, and not one of them offering much in the way of excitement.

As it turned out, I went and had breakfast instead. Wheat biscuits, milk, blueberries, banana. From some points of view, a great breakfast, with fibre and antioxidants, and from others, a bit heavy on the sugar and air miles.

I haven’t read enough of the Lusitania book to comment yet, though it is an easy read. I’m not feeling poetic either.  It’s a typical morning – so much potential and so little activity. This observation is made much sharper by the events of Friday night. A friend of mine, a few years older than me, but seemingly healthier, died. As far as they can tell, he was sitting watching TV when his heart stopped. It is both a good and a bad way to go. Good because it was quick and painless, bad because it was at least ten years too soon and it must have been a dreadful shock for his wife. The lesson I draw from it is that I have to stop putting things off. It’s all very well saying I will do things tomorrow, but one day there will be no tomorrow.

So if you’ll excuse me, I am going to get on with some poetry.

And the reverse of the medallion, with a message. Part of the message is that one great line doesn’t make a poem. You will see what I mean if you Google the line.