Lyn and I were just at a Paraorchestra meeting. While Lyn and the guys do their thing, I usually make myself busy by helping however I can, reading a book, using my Ipad and so on. Today they were recording and thus needed silence, so I took myself into a back room. There, I got chatting to one of the other helpers about love: I said I wasn’t sure what love was because I couldn’t describe it. As a writer I like to find words for everything, or else how can one be sure it exists. She replied that love is one of those things beyond words, beyond the Lacanian Symbolic: nobody can describe love but we are all sure it exists.

I thought about this for a while. Love must indeed exist, I’m sure of it. Later, when we had gone back into the main hall or lunch, I looked at Lyn and the following came to me: ”Love is waking up at three a.m and, seeing Lyn sleeping peacefully beside me, rolling over to hug her.” I might not be able to define love, but I know what it is – perhaps that’s the point of it.