Everyone Needs A Shed

Life and Games (but mostly games) from Tony Boydell: Father, Grandfather, Husband and Independent UK Game Designer.
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Dazzling points of light breaking through the dark cloud.

Anthony Boydell
United Kingdom
Newent. Glos
Unspecified
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Every homo sapiens needs an outbuilding within the curtelage of their property
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Welcome...to my Shed!
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Microbadge: I love Europe!Microbadge: 5 Games for Doomsday fanMicrobadge: Talk Talk fanMicrobadge: Citizenship Recognition - Level VI -  Is six any more shiny? ... Well, it's one shinier isn't it? ... Okay, why don't you just make five a bit more shiny and then that would be the most shiny? ... Because these go to six.Microbadge: Pun microbadges are the wurst!
I'm afraid this is one of those 'personal' posts that, from time-to-time, find their way into the blog. I've long espoused that E(M)NAS is also part-diary; something to add a human layer to all the swearing and lovely hobby nonsense - a glimpse behind the curtain, so to speak.

Yesterday we buried my dear cousin - two weeks younger than me - and quietly Wake-d her memory in the Wootton Bassett Conservative Club; the family tragedy - no parent should have to bury their child - naturally brought issues with my own parents to the fore. I think that, with the gift of hindsight, my weekend indolence was simply anticipation/dread of the strain of this grief-stricken day. This rare, too sad, reunion also offered the chance to reconnect with my Mum: long locked-in these last 18 months, yesterday was the first time I'd seen her in person since an emergency groceries delivery last April. Though she has been 'away' from the paternal branch since my parents' divorce in 1982, she definitely wanted to come along; she and my Aunt were first-time pregnant at the same time and Gill was as much apart of her "new Mum" life as I was. As it turned out, she and I and Mrs B were the only representative of 'my side' of the family - everyone else stayed hidden away in West Wales - so any awkwardness carried over from last year's falling out was, thankfully, avoided. We sat together in the draughty church, considerately-masked, then walked together through the bright, clear and frozen November P.M to say our farewells. Later - over pork pie and breadsticks, tonic water and cola - the warm relief that the worst emotional moments had now passed began to permeate the room; for the first time you noticed how everyone was wearing something in Gill's favourite colour, hear the comfort in shared stories and the giggling of the toddlers of the newest generation joyously pushing Life ever forward. During the long, at-Dusk drive home - the skies flushing with pastel colours over the Severn Bridges - my Mum told me more about her early years - arriving in the UK, aged 7, with no other language than Italian - than I can ever remember her telling before: dazzling points of light breaking through the dark cloud.
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