Had a ticket to see Respect this afternoon, but due to a lecture overrunning and traffic snarl ups, I got there 20 minutes late and couldn't face going in, trampling on people's feet in the dark to find my covid-designated seat with the film already started. I hate those people who go in late.
For some reason missing the film sent my anxiety sky high, and I drove around feeling upset until I worked out I was probably hungry. So I got lunch then took a drive out of Cardiff because although the food helped, I still felt upset.
I was so happy in the eternal, ever-changing present of my road trip, working my way methodically through a list of things I wanted to see. But now I'm home, it feels like there's nothing much to look forward to. I'm going to be doing the same things - too many things, things I don't particularly want to be doing - day in day out, until next summer now, and it's going to be stressful and difficult, and the thought does me in.
On the M4, at least I could pretend I was back on holiday.
In the quiet and calm at the Caerleon Roman amphitheatre, things felt more bearable. I lounged on the grass and read a book. Wandered round the remains and imagined past lives. Then took a walk, where I met a friendly ginger cat on a footpath through a field filled with wooden sculptures. We hung out companionably in the sunshine, until I'd sat there so long I was worried someone would do a Neighbourhood Watch on me.
Cat therapy should be on the NHS.
Today's Photo: The Power of Miaow
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