I can’t keep up with everything, I’m finding it all difficult at present. I’m doing what I can, including asking for help, so I trust it will improve eventually. Things just keep coming up to ambush me – never mind, no need to go into details. People have, for many years, thought of me as “strong,” whatever that means, which came as a great surprise when I found that out, but I suppose I must be. I keep going and I keep smiling and I’m still hopeful, funnily enough. You can still come to me when you need help or an ear or a shoulder and I’ll still provide it and I’ve still got love and strength to offer. And I also recognise that I can and should myself ask for help and support, something that I used not to do. So, on balance, stress and anxiety and grief don’t define me. It doesn’t matter, in the long run, anyway. It all comes out in the wash, as they say. Not that I’ve heard anyone say it for a while.

Enough of the pity party. Rufus and Perdita came to stay yesterday and we had a great time. They are such sweet and happy children and they are lovely with each other. Asked what they’d like for tea, they wanted eggs that the bantams had laid (luckily, I’m getting two or three a day now) and were enthusiastic when I offered pancakes for breakfast. So we went to the farm for milk – they were pleased to see the cows lining up to be milked, though were less enamoured by the whiff of haylage, which rather overtook the pong of cow muck. This morning, I waxed enthusiastic about horse muck, of all things. I adore horses and miss their company.

Which reminds me, I read an article online in one of the newspapers a day or two ago – I think it was the Guardian – about the smell of your dog’s feet. I’d thought it was just me. Other people sniff their dogs’ feet, apparently. I genuinely thought it was my slightly dodgy secret.

To turn away from me-me-me, if you know Pat (life of Pi) but are not friends on Facebook, I’m sorry to tell you that she had a stroke a couple of weeks ago. She’s recovering but wanted her friends to know, so her son Andrew put it on her Facebook page. She’s actually my oldest blog friend, both in terms of her age (she will be 93 next month) and because she posted the first ever comment on the Razorblade. I nearly met her, I’d planned to go down her way in 2014 but then it became apparent that Russell was ill and I couldn’t go, he died a fortnight after I’d meant to be there.

You reach the stage in life where you appreciate that everything can go tits-up at any moment, so you’ve got to forge ahead and not fuss about setbacks. Even if you can’t keep up with everything.