Bank Holiday Monday

It's a Bank Holiday Monday and I'm procrastating work (playing the Kevin Bacon degrees-of-separation game, reviewing the subtitles for his 1988 film Criminal Law) with my first inane attempts at a blog.
I've just spoken to my aunt Judy, who is hurtling through the last few days of her election campaign to be the new Labour MP for Leeds Northwest, running on pure adrenalin and totally unable to predict the outcome on Thursday. Although her core vote is there, how many of them will actually bother to go out and put a cross on piece of paper next to her name is another issue entirely. Don't let Michael Howard in through the back door and all that. How I wish I could be as focused on something as all-consuming as that to help me through this difficult time. Today it is exactly one month since Mum died.
My husband is in the gym as I write; a sudden keep-fit drive he's been promising himself for weeks (he has to somehow recoup the 6 months' membership he's paid for but hasn't used). Yesterday he worked out next to Nigel Harman; good to know that the cast of EastEnders are alive, well, and still hanging out in Crouch End. This afternoon he's off to the exotic climes of Aldershot, where his beloved hometown team Carlisle United are in a thrilling promotion play off... On our wedding day, Carlisle beat Aldershot 5-0, so here's hoping the score is along similar lines.
I might go for a swim in a bit; someone's banging bongos in the park outside and it's starting to grate. Once again we have our crazy mass of emerald green outside our lounge window as the trees have exploded into life over the past few days. How many people who live in London have so much foliage in the view from their homes? Poplars, sycamores, willows, fruit blossoms - with of course Alexandra Palace gleaming down from the hilltop in the sunshine. I've craved nature so much in recent times; when you've watched death, you feel determined somehow to replace it with life.