This weekend was the weekend of our annual pilgrimage to Stratford, to go to a rather lovely dress-up lunch and remember Mr Shakespeare on his birthday. (Except his birthday – and the day he died – was 23 April, but that was Easter, so lunch was delayed by a week. I hope that after four centuries a week won’t matter too much to the old bard.)
Last year I was so excited to have hair that I wore a little blue feathery fascinator; the year before was a great big hat designed to hide my patchy pate and balance my chins. (Here’s the post about last year.)
What was lovely about this year’s hat -
- apart from its delightful campery of course, and the fact that I knew it was unique because I broke one of the two twiddly curls on top that it originally had – is that I chose it with no thought about my hair whatsoever. I didn’t want to hide my hair, I didn’t want to show it off. It’s just my hair. (It’s very cherished hair, and it always will be, but we’re settling down into comfortable appreciation these days, and I like that.)
Stratford has become a bit of a marker in my year. It’s a chance to check in on my hair (doing very nicely). my chins (continuing to recede but still some way to go) my backside (a little smaller than pre-cancer), my ability to function (no concessions needed this year, no naps, no taking the lift, no refusing glasses of wine). It’s a chance for Alan and I to rest and talk and enjoy each other. (Although we try to do all of those things at home too.) It’s a toe into our past and a space to look at our future. This year, I did some of the driving. (I have no objection to motorways, but I can’t believe that those scary multi-lane roundabouts are allowed.) On the way home, we stopped off at Charlecote Park an bought a rosemary plant for our new garden.
Actually, to be clear, having recently dug out all of the straggling and struggling plants left behind by the previous owners, the rosemary plant currently IS our new garden.
Rosemary. That’s for remembrance, as the unfortunate Ophelia said.
It’s lovely to remember, and to count how far we’ve come. I’m already looking forward to next year.
(Alan took the photo.)