But sometimes things unravel. They just stop. Glitches occur. And who can tell why? Not me. Well, hardly ever.
My phone, that beloved instrument that for many years I have taken for granted, does not do all those things to which I had become accustomed. For example, a little light on the telephone used to flash if there were messages on it. The light no longer appears, but despite knowing this, in a theoretical rather than practical sense, grim reality failed to impinge on me. and, let me add, it is no mean feat for reality not to so impinge.
I got home this afternoon, and bethought me of the possibility of there being messages in the phone. and indeed there were. Eight of them, mostly from Telstra. Poor Eva has been ringing me to see whether things are all right. I think they are, but I say this with my heart in my mouth, thumping away there, with a strong sense of doubt and foreboding, and as a matter of prudence, one does not want to assume that such problems have been fixed, and, what's more, will not recur.
To take my mind off all this stuff I made more quince jelly, and there is still more to be made. Why is all of this so satisfying and soothing? Perhaps it is because the jelly is such a divine colour, deep, pinky red and almost glowing.
This afternoon I went with a friend to the concert of a choir to which we both used to belong. It was English choral music, some old, but more newish, and not as good as the older music. But then I grew up in a very different tradition. And I can still reel off the Latin words of much of it. Overall, the concert was good for the soul, and poured balm on some of the bruises.
The bad news is that more light globes have blown. Oh bother. Just when I thought all had been fixed.