One thing that online colouring has reminded me is of my need to count things.
Random things. Things I don't need to count. Like washing on the line or colours as I fill them in. It doesn't matter if I lose count: I'm not that weird; I don't have to start again at the beginning. I can just start from one again wherever I am. But it's a definite compulsion.
It's not something I do deliberately, by which I mean I don't think about it beforehand. I just find myself counting.
No doubt it could be described as OCD behaviour, but as it's innocuous it doesn't matter. It's just one of my quirks.
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The October issue of The Bay magazine is out now and includes my piece on having Covid and singing weird songs in school. When it was pushed through my letterbox today I was in the process of writing my next article. It's about George.
There's a package in our hallway that I'm doing my best to ignore. It contains George's ashes.
When the raspberries have died back we're going to scatter him there. I think he'd like that.
|Picking his own raspberries