On the way home from Waterloo, I happened to look through the fence by the War Museum gardens, to see a family of foxes sitting unconcernedly watching the fireworks *here*. We looked at each other for a while and then I headed home, since it was cold and I didn't want to distract them from the sparkly things.
I like life, at the moment. This isn't to say I'm entirely happy with everything, and in a couple of days when my mum visits I'll probably be shrieking and crying again, but things are, basically, really good.
For some reason it's very hard to write that. Writing that things are bad is fine; you get reassuring hugs and responses and that always helps. But when you say things are good, people naturally don't have much to say to it, and it's easy to think nobody cares. Although thinking about it, I suppose it is better to have friends who only care when you're unhappy than vice versa. ~g~
But I know my friends care all the time. It just feels weird writing that things are good, and meaning it, but not feeling entirely happy nonetheless.