I'm told that my life is hard

But I consider myself lucky

I am told quite a bit by strangers how hard my life is. It’s usually when I’m out walking my two lovely dogs, two terriers that are full of life and have lovely, shaggy coats and voices that carry; announcing their boisterous arrival, their wagging tails giving the tough act away. Wrapped up in a fleece jacket, I’m wearing a blue and grey woollen hat that, I’ve been told (and that I am fully aware of), brings out my baby blues. Eyes that Barry Keoghan said, I kid you not, would put Paul Newman to shame. My life is hard, apparently, but I still find ways to humblebrag*.

It’s cold this week, but it’s fresh. The sky is a shade of blue that’s normally reserved for precious gems in cartoons. Once the heavy fog of the morning lifts like theatre curtains, the blue dazzles, only to be outdone by the final act of crystallised pinks fading into a pin-pricked navy sky. Freezing, bitter, baltic, it’s all sorts of chilly, but still, after all these years on earth, I am amazed how the cold catches my breath and holds onto it for a second. I become entangled in nature. This all sounds very pleasant, but no. I’m told by strangers that my life is hard.