EVERYTHING IS RELATIVE

A monthly journal reflecting on how everything is relative, weaving grief musings with an August recap full of theatre trips and days out.

Here goes with another journal episode, where I share musings on grief and recap my life month by month. I’m writing this one while cosied up on my latest Quirky Stay: a beautiful stone barn conversion on a farm in Wales, the kind of place where the quiet feels intentional rather than intimidating. I’ve just returned from checking the sea is still there (it is, and looking rather pleased with itself), and now I’m curled up inside, enjoying the comforts while watching the Disney Prom – which you’ll read more about later – on the telly. It’s a particularly good setting for looking back on August, and for giving some thought to the stage of grief I find myself circling at the moment.

This month’s reflections sit with the idea of relativity: how grief shifts depending on what it’s held up against, how life keeps happening around it, and how I’m trying to live well and in the way my husband would want me to. August was full, busy, loud, joyful, emotional, and occasionally overwhelming, and this quiet Welsh barn is helping me make sense of that. So, settle in for reflections, Proms, theatre, art galleries, and the ongoing attempt to understand what it means to keep going.

It’s funny how quickly our bodies and minds recalibrate. Just days ago, I was melting in 30‑degree heat that lasted for what seemed like months, sleeping with every window open, seeking shade like it was oxygen. And then, within days, I’m laughing at myself for shivering at 14-degrees. Fourteen. A temperature I would normally call ‘pleasant’ or ‘ideal walking weather’ had me reaching for a sweater (that nice sweater from Fjallraven, to be exact). Everything is relative.

At the time of writing, it’s dark and very wet outside. It’s been the kind of day where the sky never quite wakes up, giving everything a dullness that makes me sleepy. I read somewhere that it won’t be light after 8pm again until April next year, and while I still need to fact‑check that, it feels true. The leaves look like they’ve already given up, scattered across pavements as if autumn has arrived early. Summer feels over, abruptly, without ceremony.

It’s not normally until October that I mention how this time of year always hits me harder than I expect. But here we are. The shrinking evenings, the damp air, needing the big light in the kitchen to successfully make my first cup of tea of the day. Even before my husband died, this transition from summer through to winter was tough on my focus, motivation and emotions.

Grief as Emotional Recalibration

And now – in the after – the toll of the change in seasons is even greater. Grief has sharpened the edges of the transition from summer into autumn, heavied the shortening of usable evenings, and made the gloom of the damp air cling for longer. Even the sound of rain on the windows feels amplified, as if it’s echoing something inside me. The weather is a kind of emotional barometer, a reminder that my internal climate is just as sensitive to shifts in light and warmth as the world outside.

If I found summer difficult in terms of living with grief, I worry about what autumn and winter will bring. Not in a dramatic way, but in that persistent way grief has of colouring everything. A grey day used to be a grey day; now it feels like a reflection of my own internal weather, as if the world is in sync with how I’m carrying myself.

And it’s not just the seasons. Grief shifts the scale on everything. A quiet day of doing not much used to be restful, now it can feel empty. A weekend with no plans used to feel spacious, now it can feel like too much time to fill. And small inconveniences used to be shrugged off, now they can feel strangely symbolic. Even joy is relative – still present, still real, but muted and more fragile.

Grief makes everything different. The baseline shifts. The calibration changes. You measure your days against a new scale, one that wasn’t chosen but was imposed. And just like the weather, that scale moves – sometimes subtly, sometimes suddenly – reminding you that your emotional seasons are still finding their shape.

The Eclipse: A Relative Experience

Take the eclipse: the most literal, vivid example of relativity I experienced in August. I was determined to witness it properly, so I checked the timings, made sure I had my solar glasses, and planned my route home from work so I’d be able to pull over somewhere safe. I didn’t want to miss it. And I didn’t want it to be something that happened around me. I wanted to see it.

Here in Gloucestershire, the eclipse reached around 93% coverage at 7pm. Not totality, but close enough to transform the landscape. It didn’t go dark, but it became a strange mis‑timed twilight, a light that seemed to force a pause because something feels off. The birds became active, confused by the shift. The air felt still. And the colours changed.

I watched it from a layby on my way home from work, leaning against my car, glasses on, letting the world tilt for a few minutes. It was stunning. Surreal. A moment where the familiar became unfamiliar, where the ordinary became extraordinary.

With my glasses on, the sun became a sharp crescent, a glowing arc suspended in a darkened sky. It was astonishing – delicate and fierce at the same time. Without the glasses, though, you can only experience the eerie dimming, the strange shift in colour. And if you were driving, doing the supermarket shop, or at home in your living room, you might not notice anything at all. The eclipse would still be happening, but your experience of it would be entirely different.

Twilight as an Emotional State

This is grief too. It’s not always total darkness. Sometimes it’s just wrong light; the world looks the same but feels different. You’re functioning, doing normal things, working, travelling, but the emotional sky has changed colour. You’re living in a twilight, not fully dark, not fully light, just… altered.

Some days you have clarity, the emotional equivalent of solar glasses, and you can see the shape of what’s happening. Other days you only feel the dimming, the wrongness in the light. And sometimes you’re so busy surviving the day that you don’t notice the emotional dusk until it’s already passed.

Some people planned for the eclipse for months. Some forgot it was happening. While some only noticed because the birds behaved oddly. Some didn’t notice at all. Grief behaves the same way. Some days you’re braced for it. Other days it blindsides you. Some days it’s background noise. Some days it’s the only thing you can see.

The eclipse reminded me that experience is never universal. It’s shaped by perspective, tools, timing, and attention. Two people can stand in the same place and see completely different things. Two people can live through the same loss and feel completely different grief.

And so, as summer becomes history, I feel the familiar dread of longer nights. Outdoor time becomes precious. The air thickens. The days shorten. And grief, which already feels heavier in the evenings, seems to gather strength as the light retreats.

Time itself becomes relative. Long days feel too long. Short days feel too short. The year feels both fast and slow. I feel both ready for autumn and unprepared for it. If summer was difficult, what will winter be? I don’t know. But I feel the question sitting quietly in the background, waiting.

Coping Strategies as Relative Anchors

After the eclipse, after that strange half‑light, I’ve been thinking about how I steady myself when the emotional weather turns. I’ve booked several short breaks for the coming months, and I have a bigger adventure next spring that will require planning and research, something to occupy my mind, something to look forward to. This is how I choose to hold on; practical ways of creating future light when the present feels dimmer than I’d like.

Planning becomes a way of anchoring myself when the ground feels a little unsteady. A way of giving shape to time when grief makes time feel amorphous. A way of reminding myself that movement still exists, even when the emotional sky has changed colour. And like everything else, coping is relative. What helps one week might not help the next. What feels grounding in summer might feel different in winter. And what feels manageable today might feel heavier tomorrow.

What ‘okay’ means has changed too. Some days it means functioning. Some days it means laughing at the weather. Other days it means standing in a layby watching the sky shift. Some days it means booking a trip eight months away because I need something to look toward. Some days it means letting myself feel the weight of the darkening evenings.

Everything is relative. And maybe that’s the point – not to fight the shifts, but to notice them. To understand that my internal climate will keep changing, just like the weather, just like the light, just like the sky during an eclipse. I’m not breaking down; I’m adjusting. I’m learning how to live with grief in all its strange, shifting forms.

An August Bookended with Sauna Stories

Around all that deep thinking, I managed to fit in a lot during August. And everything seemed to come in pairs. The month ended up being bookended by two visits to the same sauna – namely Root Steady Sauna at Queenford Lakes.

The first was at the start of August, in one of those 30+ degree heatwaves we got used to. Cooling down after each round in the sauna was basically impossible – the lake was warm! We paired it with a short walk along the Thames and my first trip to Proof Social Bakehouse (first and only so far, but I know I will be back).

The second came right at the end of the month when there was much greater difference between the temperature in the sauna and water, making the lake more effective. But as if the weather was taunting us, this time the rain was so heavy that we abandoned our planned hike in the Chilterns in favour of a long lunch at onsite The Wandering Kitchen.

I would say I’ll add it to my Sauna Stories series, but I forgot to take photos both times – very remiss of me. Still, I can tell you all here that I really liked this one and recommend it for anyone who is nearby. I mean, it’s the only one we’ve returned to (and within the same month), so that perhaps goes without saying.

It’s a simple setup with a great welcome and atmosphere, with a lovely view from the sauna over the water-skiing lake. At just £12 for 55 minutes, it’s the best value sauna I’ve tried this year. Just make sure you take a change robe (you know, a Dryrobe or towelling poncho) and slides/crocs, as facilities are limited.

Two Very Different Days Out

Beyond the sauna sessions, August also delivered some contrasting yet still outdoor focused days out; one all about big views and woodland trails, the other full of clay and fire.

Beacon Hill is (was) a new-to-me country park in Leicestershire. Not far from Bradgate Park (which I’ve mentioned a few times), but completely different in feel. The climb up to the summit gives you big views of the Midlands: rolling green, patches of woodland, and that satisfying sense of height you don’t always get in this part of the country.

I walked two full loops of the country park, bagged the trig pillar, visited the Man in the Rock (still disappointed there’s no legend associated with this fabulous rocky outcrop), wandered along quiet woodland trails, and tested both the café and the ice‑cream van. It’s a lovely place for a long meandering wander, and I’ve already filed it under ‘must return to on a crisp autumn morning’ later in the year.

And then there was my day of Raku firing at Wenlock Pottery – creative, messy, grounding, and full of laughter. My shiny, coppery, cobalt‑flecked pot now lives proudly in my lounge where I can see it from the sofa, a little reminder of a day spent trying, learning, and letting go of perfection.

The experience had a chaotic energy, and I guess that’s what Raku is known for: heat, smoke, sawdust, unpredictability. Mike’s stories and guidance made it feel both safe and adventurous, and the afternoon on the potter’s wheel – my ‘playtime’ – was as freeing as it was humbling. Read more about this one over in my most recent Currently Loving.

More Cinema-Based Nostalgia

The accidental theme of recounting August Noah’s ark style continues, thanks to two cinema outings delivering two very different but equally satisfying stories on the big screen.

First was Spiderman Brand New Day, which I saw at the Tivoli Everyman in Cheltenham – you know, with cosy sofas, super soft lighting, and that slightly indulgent at‑seat service that makes grabbing a movie feel like a treat. As a long‑time Marvel fan, I found this instalment genuinely enjoyable: energetic, colourful, and packed with the kind of action sequences that remind you why the franchise works so well. It was a confident, fast‑paced Marvel chapter with plenty of heart and spectacle.

Later in the month, I leaned fully into nostalgia by joining a bunch of children for Coyote vs ACME, a feature‑length Looney Tunes live‑action/cartoon hybrid that felt like a modern cousin to Who Framed Roger Rabbit. It was exactly the kind of gentle escapism a Sunday afternoon calls for: silly, charming, and surprisingly sweet, with Wile E. Coyote finally getting his moment in the spotlight. A predictable yet joyful blend of slapstick chaos and warmth that honours classic Looney Tunes. If I’m honest, I’m not sure why there weren’t more people my age there!

Both films were absolutely worth my time, one feeding my love of big‑universe superhero storytelling, the other scratching that deep itch for childhood comfort.

Two Prom-Based Trips to London

And still with the pairs of things… I guess my biggest ‘adventures’ in August were the two trips to London I took, both organised around having tickets to a couple more BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall.

I saw three Proms this season (read my July monthly journal for my thoughts on the first), each time taking a seat up in the Rausing Circle from where I get a sweeping, cinematic view of the hall: thousands of people sat in curved rows, the glow of the stage, the great hanging discs overhead, and the sense of being held inside something vast and resonant. Orchestral music has a power over me that nothing else quite matches – it lifts, steadies, expands – and it reminds me how deeply sound can shape a moment.

Bond and Beyond with the BBC Concert Orchestra was a stylish, high‑energy celebration of 007’s musical world. It was a glamorous, full‑throttle evening of orchestral Bond brilliance that delivered both nostalgia and spectacle. A surprise appearance by Lulu brought the hall to life, and all the vocalists were superb – dramatic, polished, perfectly matched.

And Enchanted: Alan Menken’s Music for Disney with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra and the National Youth Music Theatre was pure joy from start to finish. A warm, exuberant celebration of Disney magic, brought to life by a magnificent orchestra and a cast overflowing with energy. It was uplifting, colourful, and full of heart. It ended with the entire hall on its feet singing Under the Sea, and I hummed Poor Unfortunate Souls all the way back to my hotel.

Both are available to watch back on iPlayer – Bond here and Disney here – bonus points if you spot me in the audience (I didn’t!).

Culture as Entertainment

And in yet another pair of related things, London also gave me a different kind of performance this month – not on a stage, but in two of its most iconic museums.

On my sister’s recommendation, I headed to Tate Modern to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Intimate, vivid, and beautifully curated, it offered a deeper look at her life than I’d perhaps expected. I do agree with critics who say there isn’t enough of Kahlo’s own art – out of more than 200 works and objects, only around 30 are by Frida herself – and the “Fridamania” room felt unnecessary, especially when the exhibition exits straight into a shop (point made?!). But despite that, I genuinely enjoyed seeing Frida through her own eyes and the eyes of her contemporaries. Afterwards, I wandered the rest of the gallery: the usual mix of pieces that stop you in your tracks and others that simply make you tilt your head and smile.

On my second Proms trip, I spent the afternoon at the V&A Museum in South Kensington. I haven’t been for a few years, and its proximity to the Royal Albert Hall made it the perfect pre‑concert stop. With over 5,000 years of art, design, and performance on display – ceramics, fashion, jewellery, sculpture, architecture and more – it’s a place made for wandering without a plan, which is exactly what I did. There’s a special Freddie Mercury exhibition opening at the end of October that I’ll be going to; it’s something my husband would have loved.

Museums and galleries may play second fiddle to my love of live performance, often filling the time before a show, but they’re their own kind of entertainment — quieter than a concert hall, perhaps, but just as enriching.

Four West End Shows

Of course, I didn’t go all the way to London on two separate occasions and not see a bit of London Theatre while I was there. I enjoyed – really enjoyed – four West End productions in August on top of the Proms already mentioned above. Here are my mini reviews of each one:

Oh Mary!: Trafalgar Theatre, London

Oh Mary! is the completely untrue story of Mary Todd Lincoln – and gloriously so. This isn’t a history lesson; it’s a gleefully chaotic, deliberately inaccurate romp through the life of Abraham Lincoln’s wife, told with the kind of overacting that becomes its own comic engine. The script leans fully into absurdity: big emotions, bigger gestures, and jokes that land because everyone on stage commits with absolute abandon.

I grabbed my ticket thanks to Rush at TodayTix, and somehow ended up with a genuinely excellent seat, close enough to catch every eyebrow raise, every exaggerated grimace, every moment of delightful nonsense. The Trafalgar Theatre is a great fit for this show: compact and nicely raked so everyone gets a similar experience.

The production is tight and fast, helped by the one‑act format (which I’m increasingly fond of). The cast are uniformly brilliant, but the show currently belongs to Jinkx Monsoon, whose performance is loud, brash, magnetic, and outrageously funny. Her facial expressions were so big they could be seen from the back, and the moment she ‘loses her legs’ – revisited later for even bigger laughs – was a highlight. The audience was fully on board, delighted by the silliness and the sheer theatrical audacity of it all.

I won’t say more, because if you get the chance, you should absolutely go. Let me know what you think when you do.

My Neighbour Totoro: Gillian Lynne Theatre, London

My Neighbour Totoro at the Gillian Lynne Theatre was exactly the kind of wholesome escapism I hoped it would be – truly, as The Stage described it, a “huge healing hug of a show”.

I love Studio Ghibli, especially the music and the gentle magic of its anime worlds, and that’s why I booked this one. The story is familiar: two sisters moving to the countryside, discovering spirits, and navigating the darker emotional undercurrents of growing up. The production honours that beautifully. It’s part play, part mime, part dreamscape, with a single vocalist singing separately from the action and musicians surrounding the stage to create a wonderful atmosphere.

The puppets are extraordinary. Totoro himself is huge, expressive, and awe‑inducing, while the smaller forest spirits are crafted with such care you forget you’re watching puppetry at all. The whole thing felt gentle, imaginative, and moving. The audience skewed very young, as should be expected for this one, but there were plenty of adults without children too – Ghibli’s cult following was out in force.

The show closes in London in early 2027, and I’m glad I caught it while I could. I admit I wish I’d bought a Totoro plush (or more sensibly, a print) – perhaps I should see what’s available online.

Hercules: Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London

Hercules at Theatre Royal Drury Lane was pure Disney spectacle – big sound, big cast, big staging, and feel‑good everything. It’s based on the animated film, complete with all the songs you know, wrapped around a story as old as time (thank you, ancient Greeks… and Romans, who borrowed freely). This was another very last‑minute outing for me: I bought my ticket just a couple of hours before curtain-up, paying only £25, and somehow ended up near the front of the Royal Circle in this enormous, beautiful theatre.

The production is uplifting from the first note. Disney really do know how to put on a show, and the score sounds glorious with a full ensemble behind it. The Greek Chorus are a highlight, with Zero to Hero arguably the best number in the musical, and it was also one of the standout moments of the Disney Prom I mentioned earlier in this journal. Bradley Wilson, over from Broadway for the summer season, made a fantastic Hercules, but my personal standout was Emile Ruddock as Phil, who brought humour, warmth, and perfect timing.

I didn’t quite get this journal published before Hercules closed (it finished its West End run on 5 September), but I’m glad I caught it in its final weeks. Judging by the smiles on everyone’s faces as we left, it went out exactly as a Disney spectacular should.

Cyrano de Bergerac: Noel Coward Theatre, London

Cyrano de Bergerac at the Noël Coward Theatre was unlike anything else I saw in August; a sharp, modern, two‑act adaptation of Edmond Rostand’s 1897 heroic comedy about the brilliant soldier‑poet who hides his love behind wit, wordplay, and a famously enormous nose. I’ve not seen the original, but I knew the story, and this production received rave reviews. Mikey Joe Theatre called it “hilariously funny and ultimately heartbreaking”, and that’s exactly right. The first half was quick‑witted, loud, and genuinely hilarious; the second half landed every emotional blow.

Adrian Lester was extraordinary as Cyrano – charismatic, agile, and deeply moving – and the whole cast matched him beat for beat. The production leant into comedy and chaos, using bold sound effects, gunfire, and explosions for the battle sequences, while the poetry, sword fighting, and seriousness worked seamlessly. I loved the musicians shadowing Cyrano around the stage, adding a kind of heartbeat to the storytelling. It was slick, beautifully acted, and confidently staged. Another one I didn’t get my review to you in time, so you’ll have to look out for this returning in future.

This visit carried a personal weight, too. The Noël Coward was the last theatre I visited with my husband. We saw Comedy About Spies here less than a month before he died, and my seat this time was only a few down from where we sat then. The moment I arrived was tinged with a wave of sadness I wasn’t expecting, but there was also something gentler. Maybe he was there watching this one with me.

See You Next Time

As I close out this month’s journal, I must circle back to the idea that everything is relative: grief, joy, exhaustion, adventure – all shifting against one another in ways I’m still learning to live with. I’m trying not to worry too much about that balance, just to live well in the best way I can, and in a way I believe my husband would want me to. But I can also see how full I’m making my days, and how stopping always comes with its own difficulties. Maybe that’s a musing for a future piece on grief; the way quietness can feel heavier than motion.

For now, though, I seem to show no sign of slowing down. September is another busy month, with two quirky stays (including the one I’m on right now – sneak peak in the photo above!), a sauna day, a trip to see the touring production of The Mousetrap, and a short adventure to Romania to look for bears — and, of course, Dracula. Quietness is not my friend at the moment, and filling my time feels like the right thing for now. Still, it gives me lots to share here on Splodz Blogz, even if I’m too busy to actually sit and write!

And in case you missed it, you’ll find the penultimate vlog in my Three Countries in a Week series over on YouTube, with the final episode coming very soon indeed. Do go and watch – and subscribe for Quirky Stay videos on their way.

See you next time.