Nightingale

Nightingale

A small cuddly bird is upsetting me.

John and I collected the whole series of small bird toys that sing when you press them, which you sometimes see in toyshops and giftshops, like the Richmond Park gift shop where I’ve just been.

I recently packed them all away, and there is already a poignancy because gradually, they stop singing, and this makes me sad that they are all gradually going quiet – you can’t replace the battery.

When we went to the US we also bought the whole US set, so it’s quite a big collection, and is very much in the ‘sensitive’ category for me, because it was a joint thing.

I quite often, when I see the collection in shops now, review what they have and assure myself I’ve got all the options already.  Today for the first time in years, I’ve found one we didn’t have, which must presumably be relatively new, or we just missed it.  It’s quite orangey coloured and is the ‘Nightingale’.  Of course I bought it, but it’s so difficult to handle wanting to come home and say to John, look, guess what, I found a new one we haven’t got!  He’s not here to know or care any more.

Similarly I wanted to say to him the other day, hey you know how many times we’ve passed through Brixton by car, or when you used to get off the tube and catch a bus home – did you know there was a Brixton market?  Indoor arcades with quirky shops and lots of eating places – I discovered it the other day, I’m sure he wouldn’t have known it was there.

I went in a French bistro and ate escargots.  (He will never know, about my escargots!)

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