Week of
A shoebox from your aunt’s loft
On Monday your aunt hands you a shoebox from her loft: letters from 1944, a few photographs and a ration book, all belonging to a great-uncle no one talks about. You will want to read everything at once. Take one envelope an evening at the kitchen table, with a pencil and a list of names. By Friday he may look like a person and not a rumour. On Remembrance Sunday, go to the memorial and stand there knowing a little more.
Love
Your aunt is the last person who remembers him, and she may have handed you the box so that someone would ask. Ring her on Wednesday evening with your three questions, then stay on the line for whatever comes next. The family story may differ from yours in places. Leave that alone for now. You can say thank you and hear the rest later.
Work and money
A colleague’s leaving date has left you holding their folders and, somehow, their customers. You never agreed to that, and you can say so. On Tuesday, list what has landed on your desk, mark what can wait until January, and show your manager. If a job has slipped between two people, the fault is not yours to absorb.
Body and mind
Old letters are heavier reading than they look, and they may follow you up to bed. Stop at nine, put the lid back on and make something warm. Keep the evenings ordinary: the washing-up, the radio, a chat with whoever is home. A brisk walk on Saturday morning, with a stop at the bakery, will bring you back to this century.
Sunday, for standing at the memorial with a name you now know