In a couple of hours, I will leave all this, The Valley, and head north for a few days to The Shop.
The sun will have broken through the cloud, I will not be here to see it, nor the mushrooms my wife and her friends are off to pick this morning.
I am reticent about leaving. All that I have, all that I need, all that I love, is here. Beyond, out there, is chaos.
I worry about missing the day when the colour of the beech tree turns, about leaving my family behind, about being away from my place.
The Shop is full of things I do not see, things I only read about. Opportunities, temptations, shop windows, things that perhaps I prefer to be happy I know are there if I want them, but am less sure if I need them.
I think already of my time away - how it might throw my balance - and of my return.
As ever, I will not read a newspaper, or watch a television. It will be, paradoxically, a holiday from a world I follow with trepidation.
This is what I look forward to, that and moments of quiet reprieve from a life I love but which still can exhaust me. Selfishly, I look forward to time to myself and myself alone.
If there is one word that describes me this perfect autumn morning, it is anxious.
I don't fit in The Shop, but sometimes one has to go to be reminded of that.
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