I think London is one of the things that will save me.

I’ve been to the V&A cafe again, with the nice windows and tiles and chandeliers and piano (silent today) – and nice food.

I no longer feel quite so distraught and sad about my poor dear partner and friend no longer existing.  Well, it’s still bad, but that balance between him, me and the world is changing.  The world is pulling me back.

People all around are talking about everyday, inane things.  You can’t hold it against them.  Everyone can’t be profound all the time.

As I’ve said before, I no longer have him, but I do have the rest of the world.

I’ve looked round a shoe exhibition, seen shoes worn by David Beckham, Naomi Campbell and Marilyn Monroe.  (So what, I hear you ask?)

I’ve eaten nice chicken and courgettes and new potatoes.

I’ve seen some of my favourite old pieces – the amazing statue of the woman nursing a baby, in the long gallery by the courtyard; the way her expression is captured, the way she looks so real.

If I was a sculptor I would make a statue of my dear John.  Soon I will start to do artworks of some sort to commemorate him.

But today I’m just going to enjoy looking at pretty things.  I know he would have forgiven me for carrying on with life.

I carry him with me in my heart.

Happy Anniversary John!

Today would have been our 27th Wedding Anniversary.  And the date is the 27th, so we would have been saying, hey, it’s 27 years on the 27th!

Well, sadly, we didn’t make it.  We made 25 years (nice trip to Venice to celebrate), we made 26 (I’ll have to look up what we did, probably just a local restaurant).

27 years and I’m standing by his graveside.  At least we didn’t split up.  At least it was a case of ’til death us do part’.

It was a beautiful day at the cemetery, sunny and lovely white clouds and windy.  No-one there but me.  I took some deep red and orange/golden chrysanthemums.  I didn’t cry much today, I just felt sad.

This awful, awful thing that by definition your partner is no longer experiencing what you are experiencing.  No-one ever sees their own grave – not after the event anyway.

It’s growing over with weeds and I’m not sure if I should clear them or let it revert to nature/grass.

I thought – poor John, it will soon be autumn and the leaves will be falling from the trees again, a whole summer of ‘lush’ (we used to joke about that word with regard to spring greenery etc) growth in the cemetery around your final resting place, that you never saw, gone.  Soon back to another winter, and you a whole year in the ground.

Sometime, maybe (though I can see it’s over the top), I will go through all my diaries and note down what we were doing on every Wedding Anniversary.  Does it matter though?  That first 27 August mattered, you crying at the altar, you were so moved, at the church on the Isle of Wight.  Then fast forward to graveside.

We so often used to use, in day to day conversation, joking about something, the Private Eye refrain, ‘Er, that’s enough.(something/whatever it was)..’  (Private Eye readers will know what I mean.)

Thought for the day: ‘Not enough anniversaries.’

A few more would have been nice, John.  There weren’t enough.

(Er, that’s enough profundity and gloom!)

Having a particularly bad time at the moment.

I thought I was a bit ‘back to normal’.  The ship had righted, so to speak.  I was feeling more independent and looking to the future.

But today I feel like I’m walking around with a knife stuck in my soul.  I feel bereft.  I feel like the enormity of my loss is just going to keep hitting me again and again.

I’ve been doing some more sorting and have found some more lovely cards, from me to him and from him to me.  A postcard from him when he was away alone, saying ‘wish you were here’ and ‘it’s not the same without you’.  It’s gone in the ‘most precious things to keep’ box.

Also an early (fifth) anniversary card from my sister where she’s worked out how many days, hours, minutes, seconds we’d been together.  Imagine how many seconds, after 29 years!

I can just feel echos of myself in the future, becoming a lonely recluse.

It doesn’t help that I’m pouring my heart out online and yet not a single person has read anything I’ve written yet.  That’s another private horror.  You see the internet as a means of expression, and yet whatever you write or create is a drop in the ocean, and if no-one’s looking at it, it’s still just a secret thought in your head, a file on your computer that no-one else will ever open.

I had 29 years of companionship and intellectual stimulation and humorous conversation, 29 years of shared memories and love and kindness and happiness.

Now it’s just me, wandering round on my own, feeling profound.

Oh John, it’s not the same without you!

It was bad enough finding the ‘As long as there’s a me, as long as there’s a you – there’ll always be an us’ card.

Now I’ve found another difficult one, which despite being sad feels like the most precious treasure.

John was aware of when he was going to reach the age when his father died – he had worked out the date and must have told me.  The card is dated (presumably) the day after and I’ve written, ‘On the occasion of you outliving your father – CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR CONTINUED EXISTENCE’.

Ouch.

Well, at least he did reach that moment.  But the existence only continued for another 5 years.

Oh dear, I was always a very profound person anyway; bereavement is making me so profound and thoughtful about this sort of thing, I can’t bear it.  The only solution is to try to be harsh and put these things from your mind.  Is that the right thing to do?

There’s some sort of condition, I can’t remember what it’s called (John would have known), where people become convinced that everyone they know isn’t really that person, they’ve been replaced by an impostor, and every object or possession they used to have – someone has come into their house and stolen those items but replaced them with identical ones.

My weird thought for today is that I feel a bit like that about this house and all my things.  It surely isn’t the same house that I lived in for 17 years with my husband.  I’m in a slightly different universe/reality.  Every molecule of it has been replaced and put back in the same place, and now it’s, well, the same house, but not the same house.  A different version of it.

Perhaps I am going mad.  Or perhaps I am just trying to explain how strange I feel.