It’s Rosh Hashanah.
It’s the start of term.
When I was a little girl, I almost always got new exercise books, new pens, and once or twice a new pencil-case or satchel or even a compass and scientific calculator at this point. This is not, as far as I know, a Jewish custom, but it is a useful one.
H and I do usually feed each other slices of apple dipped in honey at this point. This is a Jewish custom. We are all out of apples this year. We used fingers. It got a little indecorous. Hee hee.
I still want a nice new exercise book.
Is all this sighing getting on your nerves? It’s getting on mine.
There was a program about fertility, among other things, on the telly this evening. And declining fertility as you age, and couples who have spent £60000 on fifteen unsuccessful IVF cycles, and a woman who got pregnant just before her first IVF and then miscarried and she and the presenter and H and I all cried together. And then the poor presenter found out her own fertility was on the skids. Argh.
New Year. New beginnings. Fresh starts. Hurry up and wait.