The Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post-Dispatch (Are you in trouble?—Do-you-need-advice?—Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard.
I'm not lonely, but I am alone. Angus is in Peebles. Claire is driving Megan to Strathaven, the first leg of her journey to Glastonbury. I'm in the tunnel, belatedly planting the last of the legumes and brassicas, digging over ground, weeding, laying irrigation and emptying mouse traps.
It's a glorious day and one of the hives decides that it's time to swarm. I watch one queen take flight and another get roughly tumbled out of the hive. The swarm settles on a Scots pine at the edge of the garden, so I lower it into a box and get the top bar hive prepared.
Then it's off to Penicuik for Kirsty and Allan's wedding in the town hall. It's a good service followed by a great array of food. There's a small flag balcony on the first floor where the smokers bathe in sunlight with pints of beer.
The ceilidh starts, but I'm not a dancer and Claire is wearing wedges. We sit in the sunlit garden for a bit, looking over Roger & Jane's, before heading home.
Angus is back, but heading out again. I sort the bees, polish my shoes and pack for my travels. Claire and I watch the Lookout and retire