Soap made of goat's milk doesn't lather

 

It's just that sometimes it really hits me hard. Like yesterday when I posted off a parcel of Christmas stuff for him and his kids. And got it couried there because otherwise he wouldn't be around to see it.

 

Not that I know he is, even now. I'm just assuming because I haven't heard otherwise. His friend wrote to me, but from Ron's email address and that was three weeks ago and I've heard nothing since. Not even to my frantic messages begging him for a contact number or at least an address.

 

I still write to him every day, though. When you're dying the sense of hearing is the last faculty to go. With every email I've asked that somebody read it out to him.

 

I've decided that the rigours of another extended camping tour are too much for me at the moment. So, I've got an interview this morning with this luxury resort over on the other coast of Australia. It will be gentler, more refined and probably a good way to spend a year or so in a different atmosphere, while I get most of my grieving done.