Do you sometimes take a picture and then realize that the thing which shows up in the viewfinder says much more to you than you were thinking as you pressed the shutter button? Or perhaps it's just me.
The little larch cones were collected this time last week - we were in Northumberland and I cried off from watching a cricket match to spend the day with Tess - some gentle garden strolling and yarn buying (and tea drinking, scone munching and plenty of nattering). A good day.
The inky fingers are courtesy of this week, back at school. With Mr left handed mastering his now-compulsory fountain pen. I'm feeling for him - he has beautiful handwriting but is struggling with trying not to smudge, as his hand passes over what he has just written. The imperfection bothers him greatly. I'm wondering why he can't just write with a pencil. But along with velcro shoes, they symbolise to him, the trappings of childhood he seems eager to leave behind.
I'm not so ready. Pushing on to the next phase used to be one of my great pleasures too. But these days? Not so much.
Especially when the photograph is such a poignant reminder of what a difference a single week makes.