annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


March 4th

Just read this in the blog

1:55 p.m. - 19.01.12


OK, so this is what's been fucking me up these last few days. I didn't want to think about it and certainly not write about it, because it's nothing, it all blew over, case closed, nothing to see here, move along, as you were. But it managed to do me in completely - last straw and all that.

I had a call from Elder Daughter, very distraught because her grandmother had died. This granny and ED had a special relationship as their birthdays were on consecutive days and they are both tiny, ferocious little women. Well, ED was ferocious, and she may yet be so again. Poor daughter, full of sadness and guilt at time missed with Nanny, unable to cope with the idea of never seeing her again. I did what I could, listened, said what I say, promised to collect her for the funeral, all that.

Next day, a text - Nanny's not dead, there had been a mix-up born of the breach between ED's father (fuckwit1) and his brother-in-law (fuckwit2). I can't bear to go into it, too complicated, too depressing, too much evidence of greed, dishonesty and utter disregard for the feelings of people FW1 and FW2 might be expected to care about. Not funny, not clever, just vile.

Obviously I'm glad Nanny's still alive and that ED has had the opportunity to understand that she needs to see her while she has the chance (Nanny is 91), but the whole affair has finished me off. I feel like a character in a soap opera, who has ludicrous cliff-hangers bunged in her storyline just to keep the ratings up, on and on, past the point any real person could cope with.

Well I can't cope any more. I don't even want to. It's all too much

Tomorrow morning I finally have the BBC interview about the funeral. Daughter is coming with me, thank fuck. It was going to be on the pier where I used to walk with Sam but apparently the cameraman has less time than expected so we're doing it in the other town, where she grew up, possibly on the footbridge over the river or if it's still pissing down with rain, in the pub.

I worked in that pub in the 70s when it was a lot more characterful and rougher than it is now, all corporate, bland, clean. It was the place of Sam's first outing. She was born in hospital, in 1978, at which time they kept new mothers in for a whole week. I hadn't drunk alcohol while pregnant as I couldn't keep it down - the doctor suggested gin and tonic - but still went to the pub all the time - our life was lived there. So in the evening of our first day out of hospital, I put her in the pram - a great big proper pram - and off we all went to the pub, where I found I could now tolerate alcohol again but not in the same quantities as before and I was quite pissed quite quickly. I remember us wending our way back home, pushing the pram haphazardly along the suburban streets, laughing. I didn't do it again - I realised I didn't want to.

I am grateful for: yoga; books; biscuits; my little dog; my warm bed.


11:38 p.m. - 04.03.20


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