GRATITUDE

I haven’t said thank you to the kindness of my neighbours.
I haven’t said thanks to the kindness of the young ones in my life.
I haven’t said thank you to my own flesh and blood.
I didn’t say thank you to the old git.
I get consumed with guilt at not being kind enough to him when he was fading away.
I’ve been wallowing in weirdness.
Tossing around in a sea of woe.
I haven’t said thankyou to my American Pammie, who gives and gives, from fancy lunches, Jo Malone scent and supportive conversations across the time zones.

I didn’t say thank you to the old, old friends who turned up for the ‘oosbind.
I haven’t said thank you to Laila and Carl who kill me with their support.
I didn’t say thank you to Leilani for her knitting.
I’ve been sitting in the garden, staring into the middle distance not knowing what to do next.
Sid, my cat, sits close to me and offers his warm furry body.
So if I walk down the hill to the long house I would be too breathless to join and thank Kate, who organised my travel rota. I miss talking to her t 7.45 in the morning. I miss her chatty football updates on Tottenham. I miss her kindness.
Jane and Ray travelled together to take me to the clinic.
Hot front seat and gentle conversation. I miss them.
I miss the wonderful Ayling’s who are never one inch away from helping me.
Getting old, infirm, losing the old man. The unconditional love from a group of strangers has been remarkable.

They are all solid and generous.
Patsy, who lost her husband shortly after me, is still at the end of a phone. Patsy who is Christian and Jewish rolled into one gave of her Sourdough bread and asparagus soup. The dog sitting angel who makes life manageable for everybody.
Imelda and Colin with their bags of chocolates and steady arms. Holding me up, quietly lending their shoulders.
I haven’t said thank you to Biggy Small for shlepping all the way from North London to film the celebrations, his young daughter Luna, calling the shots.
Paul and Debbie, who always make me feel ok about asking for anything.
A handful of humans who bought me a bench. A bench in memory of the Northern feller. A bench they carried in on the morning of his celebration. If that weren’t enough the other neighbours had a whip round for me. Organised by CG the potter. Me who had been on the telly, earned a mint and now lives a life of diminished fortune.
They gave me anenvelope with £175 notes of love.
I have been overwhelmed by the generosity and support of so many people.
I haven’t said thank you to my Swedes, my Welsh chums, My Kraut who comes from Hamburg with books and marzipan.
I haven’t said a proper thank you to my Sarf Londoners who continue to ring me about my well being. To find out how I’m feeling.

To be honest I’m unsure of how I am feeling. Hidden underneath the grief is an the old Girl trying to get out. I’m unable to rely on food anymore.
Food used to be my get out. Now I don’t care what I eat or when I eat it.
A decaf coffee is a welcome treat but only sometimes. I only do anything sometimes now.
I watch people walk aI nd creek with envy.
Holding hands, calling each other darling as they guide their partners into a chair.
I miss partnership.

Three nights ago I woke t 5.00.
In front of me a face. Staring and grinning maniacally at me. The apparition woke me. I screamed. When I realisedl what had happened I screamed again. I was told to fill my bedroom with silver. To cleanse the atmosphere.
Shannon, my delicious cleaner, changed the bed sheets. White ironed duvet, and I slept better. But I’m doddery.
I haven’t said thank you to my healers.
I haven’t said thank you for my dear ones Sasha and Jamie, for our logs. We have blazing fires thanks to them.
Carrying the logs and bending down is difficult.
My weary body is holding out but it can’t do a lot anymore.
Others die round 77, I don’t want to go yet, but living on is hard. From sleeping to bathing everything is an effort. So how do I get through it?
Well when I listened to a news report about car companies diversifying into making weapons, when the car companies are laying off thousands of workers because fewer people need cars, when I heard that their saving strategy was to make underwater drones, overwater drones. Weaponizing the machinery to make Europe safe, my blood boiled. I could feel my anger rise. With everything going on in the world the only solution these arseholes can come up with i destruction made me shake with rage.
That, I thought, is a good reaction. I am pised off enough to stay live.
Soon ordinary people will start shouting enough is enough.
DRONES WILL HELP THE HOMELESS will they?….
DRONES WILL HELP THE POOR?
Drones and more will help humanity get back on track, will they?
Whilst the orange wanker brings everything down to the lowest common denominator the world goes to hell in a handbasket.
I couldn’t think of what to blog about and then I read about a teacher who asked her students to write kind things about their class mates. How those little notes had changed her pupils.
Keeping them for years in their handbags. Putting them in albums, folding them up in their purses.
So I decided to thank those around me who have given me a new shot at life.
I havn’t thanked the pub for the chips and extra time.
I haven’t thanked Chris and Phil who came to the gathering straight from their holiday
Haven’t thanked Mehmet the director of the ‘Arcola’ for coming down from Hackney to say such wonderful things about the northern actor.
I haven’t said thank you to Kate and Bonnie, two young women who feed my soul, and Dan the man who came all the way from Portugal
Surviving now is different. No dinner for two.
No train rides, no trips to the shops
I don’t know how this phase will play out.
It’s not like I dont know how to be creative, I just cant be bothered.
I can be bothered, however, to thank all you wonderful people who are now in my life