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Well, this 'coming out the other side' is not like coming out of a depressive black hole. With one of those, the first sign of turning the corner kills the all-consuming fear and dread that the corner will never be turned, that there is no alternative, no point, no hope, no energy, no love, no anything. It only needs a tiny chink in that wall for me to know that it will pass, that I've been here before, this is how it goes. But that was when, if I hadn't had depression, my life would have been OK at worst but probably pretty bloody good.

So this is not like that. Although maybe depression is still in there too, how the fuck do I know?

And there's the funeral on Wednesday - of course her name begins with S too, so I'll call her WSM - and in the scheme of things I can't actually dredge up anything approaching grief for her passing - ach let's use the proper word - for her death, poor WSM. But I would, if I had any to spare, if ED were not living in this limbo between here and not here, then I would be sad for WSM so I will go to her funeral because I would want to if I could do caring.

She could be very nasty, but she had the vilest of vile mothers emotionally and learned from the best, and somehow you just take what you get when it comes to people you've known since before you had kids, if they're still in your life you just shrug and say yes, she's always had a vicious tongue on her, but she's dead funny and always keen to give you an update on whatever's occurring, and a fantastic, knowledgeable gardener, generous with plants and she's gone, leaving a twenty-four year old daughter, an elderly partner with Altzheimer's who doesn't recognise her from photos and an identical twin sister from whom* she'd been estranged for over ten years, until her cancer diagnosis a couple of months ago.

*Can't believe I wrote myself into a corner and had to use 'whom' after only recently claiming it obsolete and out of use, in a very public place. Ho hum.

WSM got together with her partner JWB thirty years ago - I remember it well. He's the father of my best buddy at Glasto, D (and my darling J, RIP), and it was at a party at D's house. My YD was only a week or so old, but I went anyway and spent the evening in bed upstairs, nursing her and chatting to whoever fetched up - and that was everyone, in small groups, over the course of the evening. The big story was, "Oh my God, WSM has copped of with D's dad!" Snogging drunkenly in the style of parties we all used to go to but... and although he was thirty years older we all knew and liked him and he was a handsome man who'd opened his home to many of us at times of need and he'd been on his own since D and J's mum went back to Africa twenty years ago, but still...

So you can say what you like about WSM, she gave dear JWB a new lease of life as that was thirty years ago and they were together all that time and had a daughter who is friends (and has been since birth) with my sister's twins, so her life has always been there, near mine, seeing more or less of each other depending on other circumstances. She was the first person I knew to start growing echiums , those mad bastards that bolt up to ten feet tall in their second year, flower, and set seed that grows, so there are lots of plantlets to share around. I have some out the back that can be traced back to her and one at the allotment. And Bob, the bastard Bobcat came from WSM.

I meant to write about Nelson Mandela but instead it's been about WSM. Rest in peace, babe. The rest of us will be along sooner than we'd like.

In the middle of writing that, during one of my pauses for thought, I remembered that JDog had messaged me this morning, telling me she had an unexpected morning off, inviting me to call for a chat as we haven't seen each other for several months. I didn't call her - man, she's a teacher, it's a rare morning off, I have nothing good to say. This came spewing out of my fingers, but I didn't send it:

JDog I'm in a black pit the like of which I've never known because that fucking MS is rapidly destroying the neuro-transmitters in ED's brain and she can hardly think at all - I pray, my best hope is for her to come back to how she was in that video I made because she could have a laugh then and I don't even know if I'm stupid to hope that, so it's only a flickering tiny little hope - so she's had to go into a care home and I CANNOT BEAR IT, but fucking unlucky, because there it is and it isn't going away and I don't want to know where it's going

and that was as far as I got before thinking whoa, that's a bit heavy to lay on someone first thing in the morning, before they go to work, but now I don't know whether or not I should send it anyway. Our chat went like this:
Her: hi sweetie. Home till 2 today if you fancy/can do a phone call? Going 4 days from Jan, so will have more time for writing (and seeing dear neglected friends like you) xxxx
Me: Sorry love, in the pit of doom and didn't want to dump it on you on your morning off. Yay for four day weeks and seeing you again xxx

That's honest enough for now, don't you think?

I did go to yoga which was fab, twattyman is off to Goa so the class was taken by one of his people, a nice plump middle aged woman who led a lovely session. I took this pic when I was getting a drink of water in the kitchen:

Today I have been grateful for: a chat with D; a blog to spout in; being able to borrow enough money against my pension that I can feed myself without having to think about it - tonight I went to a new Turkish place and was bold enough to ask, don't you have any fruit on the dessert menu, and the guy went and asked what the chef could do, returning with a platter of sliced banana, melon, pear, orange, pomegranate seeds and two luscious dollops of real fruit sorbets - excellent; yoga down the road; recreational drugs

Sweet dreams, dear friends xxx

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