I've learned something about loneliness in these past three years since Margaret died. It's not always about being by yourself. Sometimes it's about feeling disconnected, even in a room full of people.
Last week I saw Sophie, a lovely woman who works out of a small flat in Roath. She's not much younger than me, actually. We talked more than anything else. Had tea. She listened to me ramble about my teaching days, about Margaret. Didn't feel transactional at all.
I know some folks would judge me for these encounters. But they don't understand how gentle human touch can be healing. Not just sexual touch. Just presence. Someone who chooses to be with you, who sees you.
Sophie rubbed my back at one point. Just a simple gesture. I almost cried. Not from anything sexual, but from the pure human kindness of it. When was the last time someone had touched me with genuine care?
These bookings aren't about replacing Margaret. They're about staying human. About remembering I'm still here, still capable of connection. Still worth something.