Oct 21 2001
Sunday morning
I never know what to do with myself now on Sunday mornings when Rufus and the cats are sleeping. I used to look forward to this time every week, because I always wrote to my father and always found an email from him waiting for me on Sunday mornings. He wrote to me at the end of the day, when he had changed for dinner and had dinner on its way. Then he’d go up to his study with a glass of wine from his collection and write to me, overlooking the garden. I would write to him on Sunday morning, quiet but for church bells and fog horns, the day before me. I have to say I have much less interest in my email now I know I will never again see one with the subject “Letter from Pooh” (our nickname for Dad since we were kids and he would tell us Pooh stories), but a part of me keeps on hoping I will.
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