I can't help but think that Isabella has become a rather sad metaphor for our tattered relationship. I am hopelessly trying to hold on to the fragments of something dead.
I wish there was an 'off' switch in my head, so I could briskly shut down thoughts of Rochester. Weekdays are full of sunny classrooms, creamy papered exercise books and grazed knees. Weekends are one endless, winding road of reflection. Yet I still can't find the time to clear out the fridge or do the ironing.