I went for a walk in the park today and it was lovely. So many birds, so few people! I’ve always liked birds more than people, I’m beginning to realise: they’re so colourful and beautiful, with singing voices that gently bounce around the sky.
Plus, they disappear before you can get too attached.
I’ve become a bit of a birder since Francis died. He did so love to take a quiet stroll amongst them in the park, making no noise except for when he quietly pointed out a particularly vibrant specimen and murmured its name to me. As much as I loved our time together, I was never anything more than frighteningly bored. And my feet hurt.
They still hurt, after my longer walks. Maybe I should find a podiatry clinic near Melbourne that can help me. I know it’s a normal part of getting older that you start to wear out the gears a little bit, but surely there’s something they could do.
I have a dear friend, Margie, who used to pester me for years about the sound my poor knees would make going up and down the stairs. Of course, that was when I was much younger.
Actually, I spoke to Margie not too long ago and she positively swears by her new orthotics. Says that they’re the best adult orthotics for foot pain that she’s ever used. I wonder if that’s all I need? Something to even out my gait a little, bring my stubborn arches back in line.
I would so hate to have to give up birding, now that I’ve discovered my zest for it. And poor Francis… I feel like he’s with me, when I’m up amongst the fallen leaves, not a soul in sight. I swear I can hear him murmuring to me when the birds start to sing.
‘That one, Betty,’ he whispers on the wind. ‘The plumage; isn’t it divine?’
I don’t think I could at all bear to lose that.