Swift key in Flaming June

I wonder if it will get easier, typing on my phone. Easier than getting off the sofa and walking down the garden to my office and laptop.
In some ways, the office in the garden reduced my writing jags. Previously, when my office was a large cupboard in the bedroom, I was a frequent visitor. 10 minutes here and there, which stretched out.
Anyway - back to Spain the day after tomorrow. The relationship with my mother has broken down, the house will be sold, she will decline into unprotected dementia I daresay. Dementia and Narcissism and loneliness and I care not a jot. My caring is all used up. She worked her way through it, rapidly, extravagantly, as one might burn through a modest inheritance.
It could have been used more sparingly, spent wisely, invested perhaps.
But I’m out. Out of energy and compassion and, it would seem, metaphors.
Back to Spain.
I keep saying I’ll write here in more detail, in more depth. I keep not doing it.