Lingonberry jam is cooking on my mother's stove. It has a rich, spicy scent and the colour of blood.
Meanwhile, the radio is analysing the latest school shooting.
Today I have discussed kneepads in three languages, googled Hyderabad, watched a steeplechase, dressed in white lace and tea-green lamb's wool and had an odd urge to watch one of those slide shows of old.
I have also wondered how long my mother will live.
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