annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary
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Tired and grumpy
Still doing too much, very fidgety and twitchy. Getting into fights on the internet with dickheads - latest being some woman who puts a pic of two glasses of champagne on the post of anyone who says they've walked their first 100 on the 1000 mile walking challenge. Having had endless discussion with Son and other people who attend AA meetings about how sick and tired they are of people who assume everyone drinks, and having noticed that I don't really drink and nor do many of my friends and family, I - ah well, when it comes to repeating it, I'm not proud of my behaviour, but she can fuck off too as she refused to acknowledge there was an issue and said she did it last year and she will carry on, end of. Meh.
This is my finished art work made with found stuff off the beach. I'm leaving it big. I'd tell
you how I'd change it but then I'd have to kill you.
I'm cooking a load of meals for my pal M who has Hodgkin's Lymphoma. To go in her freezer so she'll fucking eat already when she gets in from work, so she's strong enough to start the chemo. So far I've made an Irish stew and a basic British style beef stew (with onions, carrots, mushrooms, beer, mustard and horseradish) and a big pot of chicken stock (nothing like yours, Dangerspouse, but full of real food and nothing else). Tomorrow I'll make fish pies and cottage pies (both called pies but have mashed potato toppings), lots of chicken and veg soup and dumplings to go in the stews. If I thought it would keep her alive I'd push a lorry up a hill, but it's in the lap of the gods, who spit in the face of love, so all I can do is cook and love anyway.
But as soon as I try and write I can see that I'm fucked up over this and perhaps even more over my brother having Motor Neurone Disease and him being told that there's no medication that's much use apart from one which may 'give you an extra six months'. No words for this.
YD was looking through my old photos earlier and said, 'So many of your friends are dead.' And it's true. I remember my dad saying about WWII, that you lost so many friends - he was in the RAF and they didn't come back from missions - that you just got used to it in the end. It hurt but it couldn't hurt like before or you'd not be able to keep going. So yeah, that.
Grateful for: selling that anchor for £30, legs to walk on; a brother to love; a warm bed on a cold night; Bob the bastard cat, at the age of 16 or 17 (can't remember, don't care) has finally learned to go up to sleep on my bed when she's ready instead of yowling at me for hours. She has just started to do this THIS WEEK. I have had years of being yelled at by a fucking cat. No wonder I'm a bad-tempered grumpy old bint.
1:14 a.m. - 01.02.17
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