Of guilt, gladness and life ...

I have not been blogging as regularly in recent months, partly pressure of work, partly depression, partly other unnameable stuff. In recent days though I've not been blogging because I've been reading and that has been simply wonderful.
Anyway blogging is good for me so I better get back to it...
We've been away for a week and it's been great. Liverpool was gloriously invogorating and uplifting, we did lots and had a good time with family. Then we had three nights at Watford Junction and managed to visit Gertie, my aunt. She is completely bed-ridden, not happy and has not been well at all recently. I haven't seen her for far too long. A source of guilt, I selfishly don't make time for those closest to me. Not good.
On Saturday afternoon we made it together in to London and the South Bank. The weather was not brilliant but we ate the Festival Hall overlooking the Thames and then wandered around the National Film Theatre, including this exhibition which was strangely moving and compelling, about migration and memory.
I'm glad we were away, it's good to be back too and as ever I ponder life and guilt and the whole caboodle. Meanwhile I've had a fascinating day editing papers on indigenous and feminist theology. What more could a woman want - apart from a beer and a pizza with her beloved at the end of the day?
And did I mention we visited various book shops while away, more soon about what I'm reading.