Friday, I took S and his preggie Mum to Paddington, waved them off for a weekend in Bristol. I would use the weekend to finish The May Queen and meet up with some of my Miniaturist colleagues for a drink and a chat Sunday evening.
Saturday, I took myself to Paddington, and thence to Oxford, to see The Importance of Being Earnest at the Playhouse. Erica W'd directed it and Suzanna's friend Maggie was playing Lady B, so me and Suzanna met up with them after in the bar, along with S, an eminent and wonderful writer friend of S's, who has taken it upon herself, goodness knows why, to direct my silly short, the one about Ellen MacArthur and Judas.
I got a call from Bristol - I checked my voicemail when I went for a pee - Spike was spending the night in hospital after an asthmatic episode. I arrived back at Paddington stressed, sweaty and, frankly, freaked. I knew he was fine. I also knew, again, vividly, screaming in my brain, that his fineness was pretty much essential for my wellbeing.
This morning I travelled to Paddington, and sat glumly soaking up the hurricane news while a party of rugby fans caroused themselves hysterical. Spike and Becca met me at Bristol station. The boy was a jumping bean of affection, careering around with relief at being out of the ward, his enthusiasm boosted by the ventolin they'd given him.
And so here I am, tapping at Dad-in-law's laptop, thinking about another trip to Paddington tomorrow, probably no time to go home and change before Richard Bean's play at the Court.
The May Queen will soon be finished, the Miniaturists will meet another day, but Spike will never see last night again except in his memory's eye. I wonder how he will remember it to us in years to come.