I was going to write about the weather. It was an obvious subject when I sat down to fill this space this morning. Everybody's talking about it.
We cannot stop the running commentary. About the rain. The quality of the rain. The wetness of the rain. Precipitation has precipitated a national outbreak of meteorological tourettes. Oh, we say, raising our eyes to the moist heavens, can you believe that flipping rain? Mostly we talk about the rain in the lift. During that yawning, ever-so-slightly uncomfortable gap between the ground floor and whatever floor you are having yourself. To break the silence you might say something like "what's with the weather?", and your lift-mate might agree and offer an anecdote about how they got soaked on the way to work and you both might wonder aloud whether we are ever going to get a summer at all and never mind Live Earth, bring back global warming, ha, ha, ha.
Eventually the lift will stop and you will offer a smile of resignation and step out with a sigh. This is what happens when you talk about the rain.
I was going to write about my new dress. It's covered in parts with splashy red poppies and there's beading on the edge and it only makes me look a little bit pregnant, which is a triumph of sorts. It's slightly too small, but that's grand because my little sister says, in a well-executed bit of sibling needling, that I'll grow into it. What she actually means is that I might shrink some more if I stick to my wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free regime.
I was going to write about my wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free regime. The way other people can't stop talking about the rain, I can't stop marvelling at how not eating white bread hasn't proved the impossible challenge I was certain it would be. I test myself and discover that the image of a steaming bowl of pasta with a creamy sauce infused with black truffle holds no appeal for me now. I admit that I still hanker after a well-made bag of chips with fried eggs, a hankering I occasionally indulge, but even so, I have to concede that after a lifetime of trying, my eating habits have finally changed.
I was going to write about Camberwick Green, that perfect slice of British village life, an ancient children's programme which features characters appearing up out of a twirling music box. Readers of a certain vintage might remember the opening sequence: "Here is a box, a musical box, wound up and ready to play. But this box can hide a secret inside. Can you guess what is in it today?" You see, I had my two six-year-old nieces come for a sleepover and while buying Mika's new CD, I spotted a reissued DVD of Camberwick Green. It was a bit of a risk. The nieces usually enjoy programmes that feature the super-sophisticated Bratzand animated characters with Japanese names. But I stuck on the DVD anyway.
"Why is it so old-fashioned?" said Mella, as Windy Miller waited for a breeze to lift the sails on his mill. "Why are they not talking?" asked Hannah, as the soldiers of Pippin Fort lined up for inspection. But I noticed neither of them asked me to turn it off. And soon they were laughing their heads off at Mrs Honeyman and her baby and her gossiping ways. They watched all six episodes and Mella asked could she take the DVD home. This experience has me convinced that the BBC are making a mistake with their proposed revamping of Postman Pat, who, apparently, is soon to become a more "high energy" postman, whatever that means.
I was going to write about "The Work". Last week I met a woman called Byron Katie who for years has taught people a technique to develop a peaceful life. It's called "The Work", because living a peaceful life takes a bit of work. I thought I might write this entire column about the morning I spent visiting www.thework.com.
Yes. I was going to write about all of this. But when I tried I found I couldn't, because this week I am just too sad. When the tears come the screen gets blurry and it's hard to put one word in front of the next.
I'm so sad that I can't even write about why I'm sad. Possibly, I never will. So I'll just write about sadness, instead. About how when someone you love is in pain, it's the saddest thing of all. About how sadness has a pure quality, not unlike the purest love. How it can clear the heart and stop meaningless thoughts clouding the mind. About how sadness makes us humble and reminds us what is important and what is not.
There's an ache, dull and unchanging, somewhere behind my ribs. I could write about that. But I don't need to. Because here I am - and this week I thought I'd never get here - at the end.