Nostalgia

Being an avid diary-keeper, I have always been obsessed with dates (hence my love of Pepys' online journal), and personal anniversaries, happy (today it's xxx years since I first met my husband/moved house/published my first novel) and otherwise (today it's xx years since I fell off a horse/my friend was murdered/my mother had a stroke).  (Yes, I do wonder about myself, but I'm assuming that this obsession, like so many others, might abate with age.  At some point, there has to be too many numbers to keep track of - hasn't there?)

This time last year, I was attached to the House of Commons: the window of my office looked up to Big Ben (roughly on the other side of the top windows in the photo).  I had dinner in the Guildhall, saw the statues of Gog and Magog.  I travelled to the north of England on weekends, once to have lunch with my extended family, once to have a whooping good time with my best friend from primary school, who I'd seen once in twenty years, and who lived in a haunted, thatch-roofed 17th century cottage.

Do I feel nostalgic?  You bet.