I booked the holiday alone, which Margaret found tragic and I found correct. A week somewhere quiet, no one to consult about lunch. I packed the way you pack at my age: sensibly, and then one entirely unsensible thing.
It is not an indulgence. I want to be clear about that, because the word follows objects like this around. It is a recurring condition, and this is simply practical — like keeping the good conditioner in the cupboard rather than pretending the cheap one is fine. You do not call the good conditioner an indulgence. You call it the thing that works.
On the sound bath: £45, ninety minutes, a man with a gong telling me to release. I released nothing. This released rather more, and asked nothing of me in return.
It does not fix the year. I want to be clear about that too. Nothing fixes the year. But it meets it — patiently, on the year's own terms — which it turns out is the only thing I was ever actually asking for.
