Aw man, I've got a flat to see tomorrow and I really can't be arsed because it hasn't got a garden. But it's a good price, ground floor and with 'a view over a nice garden at the back' which means Bob will be able to get in and out. I wish we used floor space (in square yards or metres), here like they do in most countries in property transactions, but we don't. Probably because we have less per person than just about anybody. I ask how big it is and the agent says 'large' and won't be drawn further, so I have to go and look. He says there's a big kitchen, though god knows what that means - neither of the ones I've seen so far were half as big as the one I have at the moment and that's too small for a single fucking chair. In the end I think it would be the loss of space that would have the biggest negative impact, but now I'm worrying about Bob and a busy road out front. Some of the houses on this road are terraced but some are semi-detached.
It was good going for a day and a half without internet access, especially when combined with the day of 5 Rhythms and general hippy workshops that I did on Sunday. That took place right over the other side of London - Jesus, you couldn't have a greater contrast. Younger Daughter lives in a run down, cheap, rough, skanky area where people are crammed in right next to and on top of each other; the workshop was in a part of town that had been built centuries ago for the idle rich and they still live expansively in its golden stone mansions. Nothing in the (very elegant) shop windows had a price on - darling, if you have to ask, you clearly can't afford it. Everything oozed calm and comfort and beauty, but I restrained my revolutionary fervour in the name of having a day of nourishment for body and soul.(I realise I haven't written about the Occupy protests - the one here might get nasty, what with the Olympics, but the eyes of the world are on us, I hope, so who knows? Interesting times.)
Dancing and singing all day was blissful. We drifted into an altered state, me and my pal MG, and her pal J, and bloody lovely it was too, if somewhat difficult to convey. I still feel a deep sense of relaxation beyond the surface stress of the house and the daughters and all that unavoidable muddle of life. (My son in law has behaved like an unspeakable cunt over Daughter's increased mobility, crushing her spirit yet again.) Moving my body and using my voice in a safe place with nice music, where everyone was kindly disposed but not really interested, for four sessions over the course of the day nourished parts of me that sorely needed it. We started with an invitation to move around the room to this:
Early night now, to be up and out to view the flat.
Grateful for: seeing Bert back again (*waves*); email from cousin - we're planning a meet; spending time with MG without any children and being able to have long, long chats that got right into it; being able to not tidy up when I can't be arsed and nobody else being affected; only being pleasantly knackered after busy weekend
Monday, 31 October 2011
Living in the city
Wrote this on Saturday night:
One hour thirty five minutes of battery and no internet. I’m at Younger Daughter’s – her new place since she moved out of ‘supported accomodation’ and in with her boyfriend. It’s a basement, on a busy road in east London and I’ve been given a whole room to sleep in at the front. It sounds like the telly out there, honestly. Sirens and shouting then little lulls till it all starts up again. The boyfriend reassured me that there are bars on the windows, which was kind of scary in itself, but it just feels exciting. There’s a big venue about 100 yards away, where a heavy metal tribute band has just started up – could be Wishbone Ash – that kind of thing, sounds a bit familiar – Uriah Heep? – a band I used to hear but never was into that much. Lots of loose, sloppy cheering. Good natured so far.
We spent the day in a hotel restaurant which had been commandeered by the w o m e n and ms group, with Elder Daughter, grandson and Bloke, next door to the British Library, which I've always yearned to go in but couldn't remember exactly what for so didn't. I loved this statue outside though, massive and solid and about thinking, brilliant:
Tomorrow I’m going to a five rhythms day – big dance/meditation stuff, with MG – it’s all very hectic for a person used to a bit of pottering and a lot of telly.
ED had a fabulous day – she just blossomed once amongst her peers, man it was heart-breaking to watch. She’s great though, my girl. She didn’t waste a second on shyness – this was her afternoon with the gang whose motto for coping with MS is ‘Chin Up, Tits Out’, (which isn’t to say they deny the awfulness of MS, but they have a laugh and piss about as well). Grandson wasn’t getting involved with the other kids as they were either frilly girls under the age of ten, or teenage ‘big boys’. So he and YD played games about the place, like ‘spot the cupcake’.
The boyfriend has MS too (don’t even wonder what my take on that is, as I don’t know) , and this was the first time any of us had met him, so there was a lot going on. I like him so far – we’ve spent the evening here and he’s easy company, funny, interesting, a sculptor, which is a good start. It’s all been very quick which can go either way, but right now she’s happy and safe and for that I am content.
My problem is that I have no idea where the workshop is tomorrow and I can’t get on the internet and MG never turns her phone on. I assumed I’d be able to get online and read the email with the details and I don’t know anyone who’d be at home and awake at midnight on a Saturday that I can call to look it up for me. I need to be there by ten and it’s north London somewhere – Little Venice (a car is stopped in the traffic outside blasting heavy reggae loud enough to drown out the tribiute band) and the clocks go back tonight, which confuses things further as we only have the time on computers and mobile phones and none of us can remember for sure if they reset themselves.
I’m going to sleep now and will call Bloke first thing and ask him to look it up. Feel anxious about it, which is annoying as I’d like to just contemplate the day I’ve had and the one I’m looking forward to, rather than fretting about whether or not I’ll get there before lunch
One hour thirty five minutes of battery and no internet. I’m at Younger Daughter’s – her new place since she moved out of ‘supported accomodation’ and in with her boyfriend. It’s a basement, on a busy road in east London and I’ve been given a whole room to sleep in at the front. It sounds like the telly out there, honestly. Sirens and shouting then little lulls till it all starts up again. The boyfriend reassured me that there are bars on the windows, which was kind of scary in itself, but it just feels exciting. There’s a big venue about 100 yards away, where a heavy metal tribute band has just started up – could be Wishbone Ash – that kind of thing, sounds a bit familiar – Uriah Heep? – a band I used to hear but never was into that much. Lots of loose, sloppy cheering. Good natured so far.
We spent the day in a hotel restaurant which had been commandeered by the w o m e n and ms group, with Elder Daughter, grandson and Bloke, next door to the British Library, which I've always yearned to go in but couldn't remember exactly what for so didn't. I loved this statue outside though, massive and solid and about thinking, brilliant:
Tomorrow I’m going to a five rhythms day – big dance/meditation stuff, with MG – it’s all very hectic for a person used to a bit of pottering and a lot of telly.
ED had a fabulous day – she just blossomed once amongst her peers, man it was heart-breaking to watch. She’s great though, my girl. She didn’t waste a second on shyness – this was her afternoon with the gang whose motto for coping with MS is ‘Chin Up, Tits Out’, (which isn’t to say they deny the awfulness of MS, but they have a laugh and piss about as well). Grandson wasn’t getting involved with the other kids as they were either frilly girls under the age of ten, or teenage ‘big boys’. So he and YD played games about the place, like ‘spot the cupcake’.
The boyfriend has MS too (don’t even wonder what my take on that is, as I don’t know) , and this was the first time any of us had met him, so there was a lot going on. I like him so far – we’ve spent the evening here and he’s easy company, funny, interesting, a sculptor, which is a good start. It’s all been very quick which can go either way, but right now she’s happy and safe and for that I am content.
My problem is that I have no idea where the workshop is tomorrow and I can’t get on the internet and MG never turns her phone on. I assumed I’d be able to get online and read the email with the details and I don’t know anyone who’d be at home and awake at midnight on a Saturday that I can call to look it up for me. I need to be there by ten and it’s north London somewhere – Little Venice (a car is stopped in the traffic outside blasting heavy reggae loud enough to drown out the tribiute band) and the clocks go back tonight, which confuses things further as we only have the time on computers and mobile phones and none of us can remember for sure if they reset themselves.
I’m going to sleep now and will call Bloke first thing and ask him to look it up. Feel anxious about it, which is annoying as I’d like to just contemplate the day I’ve had and the one I’m looking forward to, rather than fretting about whether or not I’ll get there before lunch
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Another frustrating day of home-hunting. The flat I looked at was horrid - I assumed it was the whole ground floor, but some fucker has managed to squeeze two so-called one bedroom flats out of it. The bedroom was OK, but the other room included the kitchen and if I'd put my sofa and table in it you'd have had to stand sideways to squeeze between them. Today's near miss was in the same road as my friends M&S, in a terrace so gorgeous and unusual I've googled it and have learned that it was built in 1870, in the Italianate style. Aw maaaaan. I want to live there. Again it had the big rooms, high ceilings, fabulous windows, manageable rent. But it was on the second floor (third in American). I don't know why I got stuck on it - most agents have some kind of list and I'd spent the whole day dismissing anything above or below ground floor without noticing anything else about them. I decided it was because I'd done enough, long since and now I should stop and go home, but I almost cried about having to say that one was 'no good'.
And what pisses me off is that the two near misses haven't made it to the internet on any of the lettings pages - I've been in the office before they got that far. None of the agents have contacted me with any flats, though I've now been signed up with some for over a week and when I call in they have ones I've not heard of. There's a two mile stretch of road through the city that has dozens of letting agents strung along it. It's taken me six hours over two days to call in on them all. Some are national chains, some are ramshackle independent operations - any of them may or may not have my flat. In one place there was an older guy on the phone and a younger woman who invited me to sit but then said they had nothing to suit. As we were going through my spiel the guy started listening and butted in to mention tenants who were moving out of here in December and here in January. "Hassle me," said the woman. "Keep calling to make sure I remember you." But there's another road with a great long stretch of them too, that I haven't even looked at. Monday I shall do that.
I viewed a one bedroom house as well. Fuck me. That was even smaller than the flat I'd seen. Space.
I've got one to look at tomorrow - it's terrible - I started writing this three hours ago and keep thinking of different things to google in this search and each one throws up more and more, none of them of a decent size on the ground floor for a decent rent.
In the past I would have gambled. I still have a few (a very few, few enough to be declared and discounted by the benefits mob) thousand quid. I could say to myself, fuck this. I deserve to live in a decent place - I'm not going to live like a student again, now am I going to squeeze myself into a shoebox. I'll pay the extra few hundred (gulp) it will take to live somewhere decent and I'll just fucking have to find a way of keeping going. I commit to the belief that I live in a nice home and make it happen. Maybe I go two bedroom and (illegally) let out a room to a nice serious post-grad student, or take in language students for five days at a time.
Oh God, it's 1.50 and I've just found a place and sent an email. Tow bedrooms - fuck it, eh.
And what pisses me off is that the two near misses haven't made it to the internet on any of the lettings pages - I've been in the office before they got that far. None of the agents have contacted me with any flats, though I've now been signed up with some for over a week and when I call in they have ones I've not heard of. There's a two mile stretch of road through the city that has dozens of letting agents strung along it. It's taken me six hours over two days to call in on them all. Some are national chains, some are ramshackle independent operations - any of them may or may not have my flat. In one place there was an older guy on the phone and a younger woman who invited me to sit but then said they had nothing to suit. As we were going through my spiel the guy started listening and butted in to mention tenants who were moving out of here in December and here in January. "Hassle me," said the woman. "Keep calling to make sure I remember you." But there's another road with a great long stretch of them too, that I haven't even looked at. Monday I shall do that.
I viewed a one bedroom house as well. Fuck me. That was even smaller than the flat I'd seen. Space.
I've got one to look at tomorrow - it's terrible - I started writing this three hours ago and keep thinking of different things to google in this search and each one throws up more and more, none of them of a decent size on the ground floor for a decent rent.
In the past I would have gambled. I still have a few (a very few, few enough to be declared and discounted by the benefits mob) thousand quid. I could say to myself, fuck this. I deserve to live in a decent place - I'm not going to live like a student again, now am I going to squeeze myself into a shoebox. I'll pay the extra few hundred (gulp) it will take to live somewhere decent and I'll just fucking have to find a way of keeping going. I commit to the belief that I live in a nice home and make it happen. Maybe I go two bedroom and (illegally) let out a room to a nice serious post-grad student, or take in language students for five days at a time.
Oh God, it's 1.50 and I've just found a place and sent an email. Tow bedrooms - fuck it, eh.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
There's been some emailing between me and my long lost cousin. I just offered to go and meet her - she lives about four hours away, but my old friend D lives twenty miles from her and says I can stay at hers and go from there.
I have this vision of our two dead mothers. Two sisters, Barbara and Brenda, who both died in their early twenties, who both left baby girls. And now (or soon at least), here we are, two middle-aged, motherless women, sitting on a bench somewhere, making our mothers happy. We made it, look at us, we're in our fifties, proper grown-ups. Can they see us? Have they grown older and wiser ahead of us, or is my mother still twenty-two? It's hard to imagine twenty-whatever-year-olds in the 1950s being as dippy as the modern ones (no disrespect, honest). They'd had rationing for most of their lives, no central heating, outside toilet - they missed so much. I can't help but believe it would please them, it will please them - how could it not? - to see us, their daughters, together at last.
Which isn't expressing a belief about what happens after death so much as a hope. All I believe is that we don't know, any of us, but some of us are optimistic, in a vague and incoherent fashion.
Anyway, apart from that I did some serious estate agent visiting today - two hours of it. For a while I had an appointment to view an amazingly awesome sounding flat in one of the most, if not the most beautiful Georgian terraces in the city, with a blissful, majestic front, steps away from the sea. Aw man, we'd written it down and everything and then I said, unasked, that I had a cat. No deal. The agent phoned the landlord to press my case but they weren't interested. No pets, no exceptions. So close, so fucking close.
I kept going and have actually got a place to view tomorrow, but I'm not as enthusiastic. It's a dive in comparison, but it's still a Georgian terrace so the rooms should be big and it's only one block up from the beach. You can see the sea from the doorstep, if not from indoors, well enough to tell how high the tide is and how rough it is. I like that - it's different every day. Back in the wind. Hmm...
There's still a whole load of agents I haven't been to that I'm going to try and hit tomorrow before I go to the viewing. I've started doing the Om Gum Ganapatyei Namaha mantra again - for help in the removal of obstacles from one's path. I let the other one slip when I went to Daughter's - it doesn't seem to occur to me to keep going with it there, which is tricky when aiming for forty consecutive days, considering how often I go there.
Grateful for: feeling supported, not alone in my endeavours; a great session with R (counsellor) today; a good long nap when I got in, with the cat, the bloody, flat-losing cat, all snuggled up and purring next to me; having had the opportunity to mother my children; hearing the rain lashing down on my poor, dry, neglected garden.
Sweet dreams xx
I have this vision of our two dead mothers. Two sisters, Barbara and Brenda, who both died in their early twenties, who both left baby girls. And now (or soon at least), here we are, two middle-aged, motherless women, sitting on a bench somewhere, making our mothers happy. We made it, look at us, we're in our fifties, proper grown-ups. Can they see us? Have they grown older and wiser ahead of us, or is my mother still twenty-two? It's hard to imagine twenty-whatever-year-olds in the 1950s being as dippy as the modern ones (no disrespect, honest). They'd had rationing for most of their lives, no central heating, outside toilet - they missed so much. I can't help but believe it would please them, it will please them - how could it not? - to see us, their daughters, together at last.
Which isn't expressing a belief about what happens after death so much as a hope. All I believe is that we don't know, any of us, but some of us are optimistic, in a vague and incoherent fashion.
Anyway, apart from that I did some serious estate agent visiting today - two hours of it. For a while I had an appointment to view an amazingly awesome sounding flat in one of the most, if not the most beautiful Georgian terraces in the city, with a blissful, majestic front, steps away from the sea. Aw man, we'd written it down and everything and then I said, unasked, that I had a cat. No deal. The agent phoned the landlord to press my case but they weren't interested. No pets, no exceptions. So close, so fucking close.
I kept going and have actually got a place to view tomorrow, but I'm not as enthusiastic. It's a dive in comparison, but it's still a Georgian terrace so the rooms should be big and it's only one block up from the beach. You can see the sea from the doorstep, if not from indoors, well enough to tell how high the tide is and how rough it is. I like that - it's different every day. Back in the wind. Hmm...
There's still a whole load of agents I haven't been to that I'm going to try and hit tomorrow before I go to the viewing. I've started doing the Om Gum Ganapatyei Namaha mantra again - for help in the removal of obstacles from one's path. I let the other one slip when I went to Daughter's - it doesn't seem to occur to me to keep going with it there, which is tricky when aiming for forty consecutive days, considering how often I go there.
Grateful for: feeling supported, not alone in my endeavours; a great session with R (counsellor) today; a good long nap when I got in, with the cat, the bloody, flat-losing cat, all snuggled up and purring next to me; having had the opportunity to mother my children; hearing the rain lashing down on my poor, dry, neglected garden.
Sweet dreams xx
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
If I were a rich girl
Today was a big-time duvet day. I did get up to make my grandson some breakfast before Bloke came and took him home to his mummy, but went straight back to bed and stayed there till it got dark again.
Spent a lot of time hunting online for a flat. I've not yet seen what I want, where I want it, at a price I'm able to pay, and I'm finding it impossible to decide which aspects to surrender. Infuriatingly, if I wasn't insisting on ground floor I could easily get everything else, but what about elder daughter? Like I say, infuriating. I think I'm going to stop ruling out places which have a small flight of steps up to the front door, on the basis that with my help she's been able to manage the steps out of her place, no matter how bad her legs have been. Not a whole between-two-floors flight, but some. There are masses of old buildings in this city, but virtually all of them have steps up to allow for a lower ground floor. Steps down are too steep and narrow (servants' steps), but the ones going up will just have to be manageable, unless the gorgeous goddess of affordable housing wishes to shine a kindly light on me and my endeavours to find a home fit for all my family.
Location is the other option for flexibility. I've been fixed on living near the beach, within easy walking distance - I'm only three-quarters of a mile away now, but coming back is all uphill, which has been far more of a deterrent than I anticipated when I moved here. But while I think living right on the front would enhance the quality of life, I don't really think it'll necessarily be diminished by continuing not to. I've decided while writing that I shall give it till the end of the month, holding out for the dream home, then start considering more options. It makes my bloody head reel, I tell you.
Today was my sister's twins' birthday, so it would have been Ma's 91st as well. Terrible. I wanted to phone sis but couldn't somehow.
That's all.
Spent a lot of time hunting online for a flat. I've not yet seen what I want, where I want it, at a price I'm able to pay, and I'm finding it impossible to decide which aspects to surrender. Infuriatingly, if I wasn't insisting on ground floor I could easily get everything else, but what about elder daughter? Like I say, infuriating. I think I'm going to stop ruling out places which have a small flight of steps up to the front door, on the basis that with my help she's been able to manage the steps out of her place, no matter how bad her legs have been. Not a whole between-two-floors flight, but some. There are masses of old buildings in this city, but virtually all of them have steps up to allow for a lower ground floor. Steps down are too steep and narrow (servants' steps), but the ones going up will just have to be manageable, unless the gorgeous goddess of affordable housing wishes to shine a kindly light on me and my endeavours to find a home fit for all my family.
Location is the other option for flexibility. I've been fixed on living near the beach, within easy walking distance - I'm only three-quarters of a mile away now, but coming back is all uphill, which has been far more of a deterrent than I anticipated when I moved here. But while I think living right on the front would enhance the quality of life, I don't really think it'll necessarily be diminished by continuing not to. I've decided while writing that I shall give it till the end of the month, holding out for the dream home, then start considering more options. It makes my bloody head reel, I tell you.
Today was my sister's twins' birthday, so it would have been Ma's 91st as well. Terrible. I wanted to phone sis but couldn't somehow.
That's all.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Keep our teeth nice and clean
I've been a good granny today, by and large, though I may not win any prizes for hair care:
While we were waiting for my acupuncture session, Grandson took one picture of me with each of the different settings on my camera and it's galling to admit that the one above is the most flattering. I'm gonna start looking for my hairbrush tomorrow, honest.
Some of us climbed trees in the park:
and some of us didn't.
It's been a good day - good pacing. Bloke brought GS back at about 11, just after I'd woken up. They brought me coffee in bed and we all hung out in my bedroom for quite a while, with the Bobcat right in the middle, purring loudly.
Bloke went off to do some work and me and GS got into our rhythm of amiable bickering and point scoring. He's cool to mooch about with - spots things I'd missed, like squirrels popping in and out of a hollow log and a cat in the kids' playground. He's much happier if I don't try and initiate the conversation - we just bimble along in comfortable silence then he'll come out with, "Granny, have you noticed that you can't tell the difference between boys and girls much more here than where I live?" which leads to a nice long analysis of clothes, hair, posture, city vs village, and god knows what else, with reference to everyone who catches our eye. In the end he said he still preferred it where he lives, where a girl is a girl and looks like one and vice versa, but he's twelve - he's sensitive to all that.
He's going home tomorrow - Grandad's taking him. I just don't have it in me. It's the computer games that kill it, that and the all day kids' TV. I don't have the energy to constantly wrestle him away from them and come up with alternative activities. My theory on childhood is that boredom generates creativity - given the choice I'd ban all the electronics, safe in the knowledge that he'd come up with something to do, but it's too hard when they're here. I'm just too tired and he'll play/watch all day unless I stop him. So he's better off at home with some mates and his bike. Shame though. I hope to do better next time, when I'll be in my new home, wherever that turns out to be and there'll be all sorts to explore.
My task for tomorrow is to read this fab book:
which I borrowed from my art teacher, with a view to doing some outdoor drawing/painting. Right at the beginning she says that most children (and some adult artists), are mainly concerned with form/shape/outline, whereas most (but not all), adult artists see things in terms of light and shade. This was such a relief to me. Most art teaching also assumes that tones are the most important thing, but I have a real struggle with all aspects of it. I shall continue to try and improve my use of light, but I won't obsess and get depressed about my struggle with it. Instead I will try and do lots more really free drawing, without considering that at all if it doesn't come spontaneously. That's the plan, at any rate, though when I read through this blog I am astounded at the plans I've had, most of which vanish into the ether the moment I've written them down.
When I googled that book to see when it was written (1966) and then clicked on images to see what the author had actually painted, a lot of pics from Victoria Wood's Made on TV (especially Acorn Antiques) came up on the first couple of pages. This is bollocks.
Grateful for: a good day with GS; the end of the feeling that in the immediate future more will be required of me than I can give without re-emptying my tiny supplies of energy; a growing feeling of excitement about moving; a productive chat with the nice housing benefit officer; that group I did, that taught me how to feel all right; and feeling a bit optimistic about ED.
Sweet dreams xxx
While we were waiting for my acupuncture session, Grandson took one picture of me with each of the different settings on my camera and it's galling to admit that the one above is the most flattering. I'm gonna start looking for my hairbrush tomorrow, honest.
Some of us climbed trees in the park:
and some of us didn't.
It's been a good day - good pacing. Bloke brought GS back at about 11, just after I'd woken up. They brought me coffee in bed and we all hung out in my bedroom for quite a while, with the Bobcat right in the middle, purring loudly.
Bloke went off to do some work and me and GS got into our rhythm of amiable bickering and point scoring. He's cool to mooch about with - spots things I'd missed, like squirrels popping in and out of a hollow log and a cat in the kids' playground. He's much happier if I don't try and initiate the conversation - we just bimble along in comfortable silence then he'll come out with, "Granny, have you noticed that you can't tell the difference between boys and girls much more here than where I live?" which leads to a nice long analysis of clothes, hair, posture, city vs village, and god knows what else, with reference to everyone who catches our eye. In the end he said he still preferred it where he lives, where a girl is a girl and looks like one and vice versa, but he's twelve - he's sensitive to all that.
He's going home tomorrow - Grandad's taking him. I just don't have it in me. It's the computer games that kill it, that and the all day kids' TV. I don't have the energy to constantly wrestle him away from them and come up with alternative activities. My theory on childhood is that boredom generates creativity - given the choice I'd ban all the electronics, safe in the knowledge that he'd come up with something to do, but it's too hard when they're here. I'm just too tired and he'll play/watch all day unless I stop him. So he's better off at home with some mates and his bike. Shame though. I hope to do better next time, when I'll be in my new home, wherever that turns out to be and there'll be all sorts to explore.
My task for tomorrow is to read this fab book:
which I borrowed from my art teacher, with a view to doing some outdoor drawing/painting. Right at the beginning she says that most children (and some adult artists), are mainly concerned with form/shape/outline, whereas most (but not all), adult artists see things in terms of light and shade. This was such a relief to me. Most art teaching also assumes that tones are the most important thing, but I have a real struggle with all aspects of it. I shall continue to try and improve my use of light, but I won't obsess and get depressed about my struggle with it. Instead I will try and do lots more really free drawing, without considering that at all if it doesn't come spontaneously. That's the plan, at any rate, though when I read through this blog I am astounded at the plans I've had, most of which vanish into the ether the moment I've written them down.
When I googled that book to see when it was written (1966) and then clicked on images to see what the author had actually painted, a lot of pics from Victoria Wood's Made on TV (especially Acorn Antiques) came up on the first couple of pages. This is bollocks.
Grateful for: a good day with GS; the end of the feeling that in the immediate future more will be required of me than I can give without re-emptying my tiny supplies of energy; a growing feeling of excitement about moving; a productive chat with the nice housing benefit officer; that group I did, that taught me how to feel all right; and feeling a bit optimistic about ED.
Sweet dreams xxx
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Sweet on the sofa
Home alone. Grin.
Bloody Younger Daughter is in lurve, which is great and all, but she spent the short time she was here either talking about him or to him on the phone, then fucked back off to London because she missed him.
Grandson and I lit a fire and burned things in the garden - logs, leaves, fennel seed-heads and marshmallows:
Bloke (aka Grandad) came round and we all went on the pier:
and under the pier:
and on the beach:
then I told Grandad I couldn't do any more so he took Grandson back to his for the night. I had a shower, ordered curried goat, peas and rice to be delivered and settled down with a big fat spliff, back on my lovely sofa, in a bit of peace and quiet. Phew.
Now it's an hour of being pleasantly irritated by Downton Abbey and off to bed for me.
Grateful for: ED being dead chirpy on the phone, whizzing up and down the ramp and the road; sleeping cat; email from cousin asking exactly the questions of me that I want to ask her: " i am curious as you are the only blood relative from my mum's side and i dont know many people who experienced the death of a mother when young. How old were you when Barbara died? do you remember her?" (me neither, 15 months and no)
Sweet dreams, dear peeps xx
* waving at person in Texas who reads loads*
Bloody Younger Daughter is in lurve, which is great and all, but she spent the short time she was here either talking about him or to him on the phone, then fucked back off to London because she missed him.
Grandson and I lit a fire and burned things in the garden - logs, leaves, fennel seed-heads and marshmallows:
Bloke (aka Grandad) came round and we all went on the pier:
and under the pier:
and on the beach:
then I told Grandad I couldn't do any more so he took Grandson back to his for the night. I had a shower, ordered curried goat, peas and rice to be delivered and settled down with a big fat spliff, back on my lovely sofa, in a bit of peace and quiet. Phew.
Now it's an hour of being pleasantly irritated by Downton Abbey and off to bed for me.
Grateful for: ED being dead chirpy on the phone, whizzing up and down the ramp and the road; sleeping cat; email from cousin asking exactly the questions of me that I want to ask her: " i am curious as you are the only blood relative from my mum's side and i dont know many people who experienced the death of a mother when young. How old were you when Barbara died? do you remember her?" (me neither, 15 months and no)
Sweet dreams, dear peeps xx
* waving at person in Texas who reads loads*
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