A Dream That Died.

Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well.

                                                            -               Lord Byron

I've lost something this past week, something that was as dear and precious to me as life itself. And the hurt is something very hard to come to terms with. One has to deal with events such as these with all the strength and countenance that's available, which I have done and I'm OK now.

My wife and I had a wonderful time in the sleepy hollow of  Stamford, where nothing much seems to happen, other than the selling of delicious scones and gorgeous earl grey tea. That's a massive over simplification of course, but that's how the twon came across.

Closer to home I have been out and about in the footsteps of the long dead and forgotten poet, John Henry Bramwich. He died in March 1846, in Pingle Street, Leicester. Nothing remains of course, except a few original cobbles in what was Fuller Street, at the back of his house.

All this is such a huge help to me and my various levels of depression. Walking, keeping busy, writing, not being side tracked, and above all, not being a punchbag for anybody. If somebody asked me, what is the absolute necessity for those of a depressive nature, I would say keep moving on, and don't expect anything from anybody, even those close to you. Adopt that stance, and you may have a chance.