2 hot water bottles, one dressing gown, no sleep and a body depleted from dialysis.
I was in bed, I sucked on two rescue remedy gummies with magnesium, but still no sleep.
I slid down stairs.
Hungry but can’t face food.
It’s nearly 5.00a.m.
I’ll crawl upstairs and try again…..
I lay on my back, on my right, turned to my left, hand under pillow and then it was 10.51.
The day after the orange cock wombles’ downfall.
Even Mississippi has a wafer thin lead over the Republicans.
Speculation and punditry, the last becomes first, could this be the beginning of the healing we’ve all been waiting for?
I say ‘we’ because there has been a collective sigh of relief.
Two years left of malevolence, as the charismatic arsehole plays out his final days.
For make no mistake the flabby Potus is weirdly watchable. Incredulity at his arrogance. Like watching a praying mantis mate you wanna see his demise in detail.
And so it’s November and I too am on the turn.
My heart valves are leaking, my breathing is shallow and the cardiac team are under pressure. I could be dead before they sew me up.
So today I will take myself off to somewhere kind where the eggs are buttery and the soundtrack is of teaspoons and laughter.
It turned out we went to the Foresters Arms in Fairwarp.
The sound track of beer pumps and baritone chest clearing.
Dark brown furniture, log burners and tables of pensioners eating mashed potatoes and braised carrots. The landlord is 56 years old and has the bonhomie of a pubican who likes his punters.
I wanted a pie. A steak and kiddelly pie- thats what I said diddle I – accompanied by my very own quenelles of mashed potatoes.
November has hit East Sussex. The landscape is the colour of a hairs back. The ferns have turned and the leaves are beige like malted biscuits.
I slept as the dawter drove us to`Brighton.
I slept as she slipped out of the car.
I slept as we drove home.
And now she’s laying a fire.
My cleaner went to Scotland so the carpet has bits on.
The washing is unfolded in two baskets and I have two books on the floor by the amrchair.
They threaten me with their shall print.
They are both gifts from writers.
Somebody wants to publish my blogs. Well they want to try and publish blogs. I have to choose ten of them. Then I have to find a title.
Twas also called by a telly station to join their panel of a Sunday morning. Jostling ideas.
I said I would contemplate it and possible join in the new year.
I was also approached for the possibility of doing a radio show.
I want to but I’m weary and thoughtless.
I have re-found my lovely witchy healer. She drives from Dartford. Early in the morning. She brings in custom made elk skin drums. She bangs the smaller one, rhythmically in the piano room where the ‘oosbind is in a green box on top of the piano. She drums hard says she is clearing the sadness from the cottage.
I sit down and she drums round me.
The big elk drum reverberating through the rooms.
She sees stuff.
My kidneys weak and struggling.
My heart, she sees ancestral females fixing a stent.
Hears the old man speak and a humming bird appears. Translucent green and blue.
Small but mighty.
She sees me ducking and diving through the warehouses of the East End. Small but mighty.
I see me in a white nappy running through the warehouses the smell of black pepper in the air, shouting at the top of my voice. It seems my ability to take control happened very young.
So there I am being dry cleaned and my body goes funny and my jaw hurts and my mouth dries, I shout STOP its the will of that nappy ridden baby calling the shots.
Had I not stopped the dialysis when I did my ailing body would have given out.
I am the difficult one in the bay. The old lady wearing red lipstick who argues.
My body is adjusting.
I can feel it responding to the invisible healing.
Look I have no idea wheher any of it is valid. But at the moment, in my discomfort, I’ll do anything.
Whether I’m just a malleable nutter or a naive crank, until the NHS have reduced their waiting lists I can at least help myself with an elk drum and cayenne pepper.
I will now sit on the floor next to the fire. When the flames change from white to yellow and the warmth hits my thighs I can relax.
Imagine not having a bath for two years, not being able to climb in or out of the tub.
I shower but I would like to emerse myself in warm water and relax. Not yet though – patience is the watch word.
I talked to the old gits’ brother today. He lives in Ireland and is the spit of the ‘oosbind.
I watched his mouth move. Listened to his northern twang. Stared at his jaw line. When I hung up I cried. They look the same. He’s three yers younger.
We all know none of us get out of this alive but it’s still a shock when you catch up with ‘there’
All my life I’ve wondered what it would be like when I got ‘there’ but now that there is here it’s no different from finding out that here is the same as there.
A silly little life with ups and downs Thank goodness America had its mid terms and crowds of whooping Americans gave me a shot up the bum.
Now it’s time to griddle a fish cake and use the old gits favourite chutney. A taste of then with a hint of now.