Some statistics from this week.

Forty Seven days

Two years

Ten miles

Thirty nine hours

Twelve years

Ten hours

Today’s the 18th of May, it’s a Sunday and I’m sat in the garden, drinking beer, listening to bird song and watching Cairo drift off to sleep in the sunshine.

Or I was, she’s wandered off again. It’s even money as to whether she’s gone hunting or wandered off for a doze. She was so broken yesterday after walks and ‘helping’ me work and playing with the water gun, that she could barely move.

Milo’s definitely asleep somewhere, we did a nearly six mile walk earlier and he’s also had a couple of patrols around ‘his’ land.

It’s been forty seven days since I left work – I only know this because they haven’t closed my accounts properly and I’m getting mails telling me that my phone is out of policy.

I miss it even less than I thought I would. My days are still full, but not tied to an artificial timetable.

And for the first time in weeks and weeks, I went to London on Thursday.

It was a full day, up at six, walk the dogs, home, shower, put a suit on and drive to the station.

Train to London, cab to the Army and Navy Club and then lunch in the bar above Waterstones on Jermyn Street.

On to Piccadilly for a couple of drinks with the son of a friend who passed last year – and one of my feral ponies.

Meet The Smurf, go for dinner in Mayfair and catch up on her recovery. She’s 90% there but the strain of a very close call with death and a genuinely life altering operation is there on her face if you know her well enough.

I pretend that I don’t and keep the compliments flowing on a semi-regular basis.

Get a text from one of the other feral ponies – three of them are in town.

Meet them at the Cellar Door – chat to the singer, she vaguely recognises me – have I been there before?

Erm. Yes. Twelve years ago, we went there a lot.

Drink like seahorses with the ponies, one of them pays for it on his corporate card, I’m apparently four people from Security.

Onto Soho with the ponies and The Smurf, three clubs, litres of gin and all of them packed off in cabs by 3am.

Off to bed.

After ten hours of drinking.

And I can’t fucking sleep.

Breakfast in the club, cab to Euston and a train back home – I’m in First so I have a bit more food.

Home for a quick lunch and then a walk across the fields to install a new kissing gate for the parish.

Walk back home to get chainsaws, saws and a fucking tomahawk so that we can clear the tree stump from Hell.

Many hours later, ten miles of walking back and forth, more swearwords from a couple of us than I think the third of our group has heard in their lifetime and the motherfucking stump was cleared. The cunt.

And our gate was installed.

Home for a couple of beers and a bit of dinner.

And sleep.

I’d been awake for thirty nine hours at that point, I’d walked ten miles and was somewhat surprised to make it to early evening.

Yesterday was a day of walking and more work , the dogs had some fun on the canal and helped me check a shed in a copse of trees that I’m going to repair for varmints.

And today was spent walking, doing minor jobs and chilling.

It’s been two years since my Dad died and I wasn’t sure how I’d feel today.

Life is there to be lived, I miss him, but can’t bring him back.

And I won’t be sad.

Life is here for us to enjoy if we so choose.

I choose to.

Remember to live.

Those stats won’t stay still