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Loads of stuff been going on, miles too much, with daughters and grandson and up and down the fucking motorway and securing the wheelchair in the van and undoing it, with seven different straps each time, again and again, and hard, so hard. We did good but at the end of it we're all still in the same black pit of whatever the fuck this is and neither me nor my YD know how to live it, on and on and on.

And I'm sorry if this is bloody negative, weak, self-pitying, whatever, but I spend most of my time not being like that because it's bad enough without me weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth all over the shop, and if you can't handle it, boo hoo, poor you, you can fuck off.

I am grateful for: my health; still here; roof; bed; novels

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