Clothes and books

I bought a dressmakers dummy, female, size 12. If I start selling mum’s clothes, her later life shawly jumpery diaphanous stuff will go well on it. I’d need to get another one in size ten for the bulk of her early stuff. It’s gorgeous. I was in the dry cleaners on a fact finding mission. “How much to clean this, it was my mother’s?” Two women in the queue behind me were saying “That’s beautiful.” “I want it to go where it’s loved,” I respond. “And it was your mother’s? Your mother was cool!” This from a very well spoken young woman in cycling lycra, dropping off some jumpers. It makes me smile. “Yep. She was.” But I can’t be the curator of her wardrobe forever, and I’ve made sense of eBay now. The issue is that I don’t know what things are called. And knowledge is power on eBay. So I’ve invited a friend who knows clothes for dinner. She might be able to help me distinguish between types of clothes. I only recently learnt the difference between a skirt and a dress so on my own I’m powerless vs women’s clothing.

In the meantime I reversed the dummy and stuffed a towel into its belly to make it portly. I’m using it as an approximation of my uncle in order to photograph his jackets.


And today I went to the storage locker and grabbed multiple boxes of books to sort. I’m going through them in the back of the van. It’s cold and dark, but I can see enough to go by. Most of them aren’t my groove but a few of them are wonderful and I’ll treasure them. The rest I’m going to try to take to charity shops, or friends. I’ve noticed recently that London charity shops rarely even accept books these days. Last time I came with a box of books to a charity shop, I tried three in a row and the third guy said “just put them in the recycling bin.” I blame it on the ubiquity and attractiveness of bookshelves. Every property is full of them, so books stay safe while CDs and records and vinyl gets boxed up and moved around and thrown away. Virtually every book I’ve scanned is available on Amazon for a penny from some huge book moving industry that makes .10p per book on thousands of books every day. It’s a living if you’ve got the time, but for me it’s charity or recycle so I can make space for making things.

My friend is soon to arrive, and frankly I think we will just eat, drink, laugh and catch up. She can tell me the name of a few types of gown or sleeve or pattern, but if it was about identifying clothes I’d have sent her piccys through WhatsApp. Really I just fancied a bit of company. The scaffolding up the block is covered with tarpaulin so I get no natural light at all at the moment. It’s like my flat has been wrapped in cling film.

Sorting and selling and dumping

A guy I sold a bag to last week sent me a photo of the same bag reconditioned. He’s worked on it for a week and he’s thrilled. It was just a tired old leather bag to me, really, but it was something he both wanted and understood. I was perfectly happy when he bought it, having neither the time nor the expertise to transform it. It’s been moldering in an attic for over seven years and now someone loves it. There’s a pleasure in the transference. It’s the first experience I’ve had of a stranger showing me how they had directly benefitted from my somewhat pragmatic eBay sales frenzy. I’ve got the costs of a very expensive excursion to Jersey to recoup so it’s lovely to know that things are finding homes, just as it’s lovely to know they’re leaving my space.

If I had the space I’d probably keep all of it against the possibility of it coming in handy in something theatrical, but thankfully I don’t have the space so I’m having to be ruthless about what I keep. Tomorrow I’m getting started on plates, and so long as I’ve got enough for two full Christmas Carol services then I’ll be thrilled. Anything surplus can and will go to charity or eBay or out out out and away.

The Factory just started their week in Wales today. If you’re towards Clwyd then will tell you where they’re doing it. I’m in London though, hoping I can properly activate this week to clear through things and also work out the extent of what I have. Tomorrow I’ll be trying to empty the storage I have. Wednesday and Thursday I’ll be sorting a lot of unusual things. Anyone who likes that sort of thing and has time and headspace, all help is welcome, as is the company of someone doing their own thing while I do it. I find myself quite solitary when I’m at home these days, and I’m beginning to discover that I like to have another human to bounce ideas off.

Today was about tiles. I’ve listed lots of beautiful antique Wedgwood Midsummer Night’s Dream tiles that part of me wanted to keep for my bathroom on eBay. I am getting better at parting with things though. I wanted to keep them because they’re nice and Shakespeare etc etc. But no, Al. Right now it’s about putting things into the world in return for money. or good energy. There might come another time when I flip that energy flow but right now it’s eBay, Amazon, this blog, and whatever else I’m called to throw out to whoever will take it. Once my living space is clearer I have a sense I’ll continue to throw things out but they’ll get more figurative and not so literal. But if I’ve got no room on my writing desk I can’t very easily write. I’ve grown adept at thinking into my phone now, which is a blessing and a curse. But a designated working area in my home would be helpful, might result in some interesting things, and is eminently achievable if I just keep engaged in this process of sorting and selling and dumping…


Other people’s junk

They’ve moved to the country, these two friends of mine. Away to the seaside where there is sand and salt and the wind makes your nose run. You can’t get to their home by tube any longer. Still – it’s only about 2 hours door to door. I spent the weekend. We rehearsed and drank wine.

I drove to Margate in the van, and we loaded it up first with boxes of ancient costumes from a damp garage in Bethnal Green. There’s a lot of crap in there, but also some gold. I have no idea what I might have hauled, but I caught a glimpse of some of it. Lots of weaponry, chainmail, breastplates and so forth. Elizabethan style boots, and piles full of doublets and hose. Hundreds of hats. Old fashioned speakers and amps and keyboards. Foley. Things that make noises. All the kit from Fitzrovia Radio Hour was sleeping in there. Bangy doors and locky locks and walky floors and knocky knocks. All you could want for a spoof 1940’s radio show full of drama and suspense.

It’s all very well to be moving all these lovely things but we had to get it either up three flights of stairs, the third one being essentially a ladder, or we had to get it down into a basement, past a sleeping mother and child. All these clangy items…

Back when Sprite was running I’d ask if I could be given a line of parts that involved lots of running around every summer. Getting fit while working is so much easier and more rewarding that banging away on a treadmill. Often if it’s for work I don’t notice it. But I noticed it today. I was buggered by the end of the morning. My legs were wobbly. It probably didn’t help that I had skipped breakfast. But blimey, it was a sweatfest. And as luck would have it, his boiler packed up just before I arrived, so showering wasn’t an option.

Anyway, it’s all there finally now, and Jon will likely have a similar week to the one I’ve got coming up, where he has to make sense of what he’s got, and try to be ruthless with what he keeps and what he jettisons. At some point some of it will probably find its way back to mine, to be pressed into service as costume for the weird and wonderful dinnertime entertainment stuff I frequently find myself being trotted out to do.

I’m home at last in my unusually tidy flat, and I’m so tired I’m worried I’ll crash out before the bath has finished running. Some friends won Olivier awards tonight, which is always heartening. It’s an exciting time for theatre right now. I’m going to try to allocate some monthly budget into tickets going forward, as I miss a lot of interesting things if I only go to the shows I can watch for less than twenty quid.

Bath has enough water in it. I’m doing this. See you next week…



Oh dear. It’s been a good full day. But it hasnt occurred to me until I’m plenty of wine down that I have written no blog. I made an excellent gravy, but also made the fatal mistake of overextolling its virtues, to the extent that my friends were so poisoned to its virtues that some of them avoided it entirely, thinking my praises the raving of a madman. Maniac fools, spamming their judgement on one of the tastiest things ever to have entered their kitchen. If there’s one thing I know, it’s gravy. They threw away half a pot untasted. We all have things we come to regret. They’re good people. It’s not for me to mine the extent of their folly. But God. The lack of that particular gravy will haunt them forever. Right there – that was the motherlode. But as is so often the case, they didn’t know what they had. One of them even used a single ingredient as a reason to dismiss it untasted. Life is long, and opportunities knock and pass, knock and pass…

While I was rehearsing today, a Cream Egg dissolved in my pocket. Sticky creamy yuk all over my pocket. I licked my phone screen clean and realised it tasted nice. I’ve quarantined that pocket.

We have been rehearsing in French and English. I never thought I’d end up as the French expert. But that’s a part of it for me today, learning the princess in the beautiful “elbow” scene of Henry V. There can be only two of us and there are many scenes. Most of them are written for two men as per the period. It’s weird playing half of one of the only good scenes Shakespeare wrote for two women. But in terms of the fact that they can’t afford three actors, I’m happy to be the male in this duo. I lost a job once that might have been changing in terms of career, and was told “If we’d employed you, there would’ve been more men than women in the cast.” As an unknown to that big company, I ate that yuk happily as it aligned with my 50/50 hopes for my future industry. Even if it hurts me – and it can do – this is a period where a lack of balance must be positively addressed and I’m very aware I’m the wrong demographic. I’m curious where it leaves me, who was told I’m “too dark for my posh english accent” as I was leaving drama school. Another piece of advice was “learn to speak Farsi or something and you’ll never stop working as a terrorist.”

Bullshit. I’m an English person with slightly darker skin. “You’re not from round here,” I’ve been told a few times by peelywally faces . A large part of my heritage is Spanish, forced out by Franco. I understand why my grandfather wouldn’t have the language spoken in the house, having walked some of the execution routes on Camino. On the flip, my father identified as Scottish but lived in Jersey and the IOM. I lived there too. I wish I could activate a UK career and move back home to Jersey. Maybe one day soon. Meanwhile I’m staying in Margate with people that matter to me.

Bring it. I could sell perfect gravy out of the back of my van in Margate. But I’d have to make sure people knew it was legitimately amazing or they’d just waste it…

Here’s my bedroom.


It scared the shit out of me last night. I woke up and thought I’d been kidnapped…




For the last few months, the van has been parked outside my flat with two pathetic back locks. They are so flimsy you could literally break them with a good pair of pliers. There’s never anything of obvious value in the van though. Flats and scaffolding. Boxes of random shit that would be meaningless to your average kid trying to work out how to fund his K habit. I frequently leave them completely unlocked because they were almost completely rusted through when I took custody of the van, so I don’t feel comfortable locking them in case they stick that way, and I don’t want the work of busting them open considering the reward is a bunch of mdf and a “Best of opera” vinyl collection. The window above the cab has never sealed properly anyway, so anyone dedicated can get in.

“WeyHEY lads lads lads this vaaaan ain’t locked!!” “Get it open get it open! Jammo da boyyyy!!!” “It’s OPEN!! It’s full of … WOOD! NO IT’S NOT WOOD. BUT THERE’S THIS BOX FULL OF … BOOKS!” “Da fukk Jammo?? Wot are bookz?”

Nobody wants anything I’m carrying, aside from the people I’m carrying it for. Plus, frankly, we are all made to feel less secure than we are as a matter of rote. Because security is a huge industry. Being burgled has got to be foul – it’s a betrayal of safety. It shifts your trust. And it does occasionally happen. I remember friends of mine being burgled at uni. Horrible. Such an invasion. But security and insurance companies capitalise on our shared worst experiences and memories, and monetise paranoia, and of course they’re playing the odds but they’re doing it successfully and making millions off us and if you need to make a claim you better be ready to give them more than you can afford. I pay almost £200 per month for a £300 car. Insurance brokers should be boiled in their own diarrhoea.

You can see where it started, that insurance industry. It’s taking money from people who think they’re important enough that bad things are more likely to happen to them than to someone else. It’s a thinking pattern I see with my friends. In this case, No! Fuck you. You are more likely to be targeted if you’re suspicious. Stet.

If I was desperate and had stolen before and you treated me like I was trying to rob you while I was working for you for fuck all and your internal distrust was making it infinitely harder for me, I’d be less inclined to choose to like you. And liking is a choice. And if you’re inclined to be a bastard to others you still need to justify it unless you’re insane. In order to be able to hurt someone it is necessary to mildly dehumanise them first. If you can think of them as lesser beings then you can dismiss them. And a great way of justifying that dismissal is “they don’t think of ME as human but I know I am human.”


Although it’s worth mentioning I once used this line of reasoning to try to understand how a very ordinary human being might have justified an action that had a negative effect on my dayjobbing.

But anyway today I went to B&Q and bought some reinforced padlocks to use versus Margate. Better than the rusted gossamer ones I found on the van.

The last time I parked on this road in Margate some idiot tried to open the driver door of my jag with a screwdriver, failed but bent the fuck out of it. It was my vehicle so I didn’t mind so much despite the insurance cost (because I’m an actor).

This time it’s not my vehicle. I’ve learnt that Margate is much worse than Chelsea for pointless crime. In London there’s no point doing anything without a profit motive. “We’ve broken into into the van!” “What’s in it?” “Fuck all mate. Records and books. Amazon are restricting record sales. The books are shit, I bar coded them. We should’ve filmed ourselves breaking in. We make more money per second instsgramming than we could off this shit. Come on. I’ll punch you, you film it, and it’ll go viral.”

But weirdly, I feel I need proper locks here than I do in London. So we bought some.

Pigeon spikes

There’s scaffolding up my block, and it’s windy. Poor Pickle has been freaking out all day at the unusual noises. She hid under my bed most of the morning when the workmen were on my floor outside the windows.

The people that manage my block have an extraordinary propensity for spending money on bollocks. Their latest venture is to put pigeon spikes on all of our windowsills. Not only do they look crap but also I’ve never seen a pigeon on my windowsill. There’s one part of the building where they roost – above my windows – but they haven’t been told to put the spikes there. If I had a problem with pigeons I’d put them out myself. I don’t want those horrible looking things catching crap on my sills for no reason. But the problem is that this leasehold block is run by people that live in Wycombe. The two things we need to have fixed are the water outflow pipes, which are way too small for modern appliances, and the guttering or roof slates that causes a leak into my flat in heavy rain. We have had to pay thousands for what appears to be mostly a cosmetic job. Like last time when it cost me £18 grand plus 6 for the windows and they basically just changed the doors, stole my window weights, and fucked off on holiday. It took forever to get out from under that and it was a pile of crap. But we are beholden to these management idiots, even though they don’t even ask those of us who live here what needs doing.

In the first week of the job, the idiots who put the scaffolding out took a huge chunk out of the porch. When I sent photos to the management they responded by thanking me and telling me they’re getting a quote from the people who did the damage to fix the damage. I expect we’ll get another bill for that.

The downside of living in this beautiful Edwardian block, exposed to the elements as it faces the river, perhaps. But Jesus why do we have to be managed by those fuckwits? They can chase an invoice. Every time I am digging out from under it they hit me with another bill. They love to get on the phone and be passive aggressive. But I haven’t been able to get a shower put in because people that don’t even live in the block have decided we all need spikes on the windowsill. The people I’ve spoken to that actually live here can’t understand it.

The builders are cheerful, when they show up. There’s nobody managing them but they clearly work together well. I like them. I’m making them cups of tea out the window and asking them how they’re fixing the spikes down so I know how to get them off again. Glue. So I can just prise them off and then I’ll have to repaint the windowsill. I wonder what fuckups they make this time round. Last time, when they weren’t stealing my window weights, they swapped the lovely brass lion door knocker on my door onto my neighbor’s. I won’t get that back. Or my money. Or my weights. But I’m going to look into ways the residents can take over the management of the block because it’s ridiculous…

I’m probably getting worked up about nothing. But I’m 3k down, which is the second most money I’ve ever spent on anything, the first being the previous refurb. Grrr


“It’s good to talk”

I’ve just spent an hour on the phone to an old friend. I haven’t done that in years, those hour long conversations. They used to be a part of my fabric before everybody got so busy. One friend would call when she was walking home, then go into her flat and check for burglars and then we’d spend ages sending empathy down an open line. Another friend where the lines were always open no matter what time, and both of us made use of it enough that it was never a chore. “I’ve locked myself out.” “Get a cab here” There are friends who’d get a call or call me when one of us was showering tears and snot about something. One of those life things that can feel so all consuming, but that can be disempowered by talking in detail. Sometimes an hour and forty minutes or something, and most of it silent as one of us struggled to find the words and the other waited.

The fact it hasn’t happened much lately is testament to how much busier we’ve managed to make ourselves, and proof positive that the old depression is properly burnt out at last. I hadn’t thought of it. But my dear friend has been suffering and reached out. We were connected across the wires for a while. I hope it helped. It was lovely to catch up with them.

My mother existed on the phone. When I lived with her I’d hear her doing her morning rounds, calling one friend after the other, embellishing and sharing and developing stories as she went. She liked to know what I was doing constantly. She was like an information hub. If I went silent for too long she’d worry – to the extent that once when I went to Paris for two days with my girlfriend aged 19 she rang all my old schoolfriends asking if I was with them. I got back to loads of messages from people who I hadn’t spoken to since I was at school, worried that I was dead in a ditch. I reflexively rang her after her funeral to tell her how it went, and didn’t notice the absurdity until I got her voice on the answerphone and fell apart. But I guess she taught me to listen and to share. We used to talk for hours. Even little things like my first parking ticket. “I’m so angry.” “Of course. So you need to be more careful.” Nothing. But something.

Those long open conversations helped me think of talking on the phone as a good way of solving things. I still look for a number to ring if my thing isn’t working. I’d sooner talk to “Wayne” in Alexandria than do it via an online chat system where everything is out of the proper order as he runs his index finger down the same old list and eventually “escalates” me like he should’ve in the first place.

I’ve had a couple of good long phone calls lately and hadn’t noticed I missed them until I had them. Things are getting more bite sized. I prefer the long form. As I suspect you’ve noticed by now…


Old versions of ourselves

As part of the tidy up, I opened an old trunk, and it was a veritable oubliette. Stuff I had packed up when I left school and then just ignored. For decades. Old essays. Things I had written for the school satirical magazine that my friends and I made for a year or three. Terrible scripts. Awkward letters never sent. A photo of my first girlfriend and I at a festival. Hideously verbose and naïve short stories written long form, deeply inspired by Douglas Adams, fundamentally clueless about life, full of righteous indignation about human idiocy. Poems. Pictures and sketches, probably done in maths lessons. Self portraits…


I read much of it today and could barely believe it came from my pen. There were definitely flashes of insight. There were well turned sentences. I was trying to keep my reader’s attention. But mostly it was transparent how little the author understood his subject matter. Sometimes I tried to write about sex, and it’s reverent and fumbly. Much as I would have been in person had any of those teenage fantasies translated into realities. In one essay I write the history of creation from the point of view of an angry self-styled outsider with tendencies towards unusual belief structures. People had to read that stuff. I chucked most of it, put an old photo on Facebook, and moved on. I didn’t miss it for 27 years. I’m unlikely to lose sleep over it. And that kid was an awkward entitled little bastard. But at least he had my sense of humour.

It’s useful occasionally to touch base with where we’ve been. I’m glad I hit that stuff and found myself thinking I’ve evolved. If I’d been hankering after the good old days I’d be disappointed in myself. “Adapt or die”. Someone commented something like “It’s good to remember the good times” and I had a physical reaction. Those times weren’t particularly good. They were just times. Why else would I have put them in a trunk for decades and severed contact with almost everybody?

Now I can look back and see the process I was going through. Back then I was just … going through the process, and a lot of the time I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

Fuck. Still. I’ve made things better in my flat with help from my friends, and yet there’s more to be done. Tomorrow I’ll be getting into my bedroom at last, which is a sea of clothes and papers and books. Gradually I’m getting things to a stage where I can see where I am right now. Every parcel I send on eBay cuts a bit more past away, and helps me move forward to wherever the future lies. It’s not as hard as it used to be. I’ve started digging into my childhood geek stuff, my mum’s clothes, all these things that would’ve gone to landfill if I’d been moving house all the time. I’ve even started sorting my books. Taking some to charity. Recycling others. Slowly and steadily. It’ll take a long time to finish this, but it can work well around the acting, and it’s therapeutic…


Early alarm startles me from too little sleep after too much fun the night before. I stagger into the van and boot it up. Then somehow I’m in Kingston driving into a scene dock. Armies of people come from nowhere, casually able to singlehandedly carry huge flats. The van is packed to the gills, and it empties like a dam breaking. Everything is swarmed into The Rose Theatre and laid out on the stage ready for the build. It’s a very different feeling to the load in, which was three people versus wind and seemed to take forever. Before I even know it it’s done. I’ve left my bag at Tanya and Tristan’s so I drive back, pay for two hours parking, and fall asleep again. Two hours later I emerge to a parking ticket. I wasn’t inside the lines. Buggers. That’s £30 to better roads in Richmond.

I drive home, park inside the lines, and go and take a load of stuff to the post office. I’ve sold about fifty things on eBay. I have no idea if I calculated postage correctly. I go to the Royal Hospital Post Office, which is manned by ex-services pensioners and is a delightful place to send your letters if judged on company and location. It has extremely odd opening hours, they take a long lunch, and if you need stationery you pay cash. But they’re really helpful in there, and full of jokes, even if it’s boiling. “This is a care home, it has to be kept warm,” says one of the lovely old guys behind the counter. He’s set off an alarm of some sort and it’s going the whole time I’m there, in a high pitched blare. It’s possible he can’t hear it, but I’m packing up old phones and addressing envelopes in this boiling room with a constant high pitched whine and it really doesn’t put me in a relaxed headspace. Plus this first foray into large scale eBay selling is a learning curve. The money is in my PayPal, but I’m told on the way there by a friend that “eBay favours the buyers. “Get them tracked. People try all sorts of things.” Most of Peter’s stuff is low value but it all sold for something so at the moment it looks as if this has been a lucrative first foray. But I’m not doing another big listing until I’ve seen how much admin is needed in aftercare and refunds to keep my 100% rating. “My shirt smells.” “My belt never arrived” etc etc… Hopefully we’ll be ok.

Postage done I get home to a demoralisingly cluttered home. Today is earmarked as the start of the home clear up. By the time I walk in the door I’m feeling rancid and could easily talk myself out of this, but thankfully Jack has come to help and he just takes point. “This is what we’re gonna do,” and then we do it, and when Marie comes after work we get much more done than I could ever imagine we would. By half nine the kitchen and bathroom are immaculate and the living room is a relaxing place again and we eat curry in it. Now I’m sitting on my sofa breathing and writing and I think I’ll get an early bed. I booked off dayjob tomorrow so I’ll have to get £120 worth of tidy done. That’s a whole lot of tidying…

But what a difference. And even though there’s lots more to do I’m feeling so lucky to have friends that will do that with me, and for me. Everything is easier when it’s shared…


Mother’s Day is a bit weird for me but then it’s a bit weird for lots of people.

The alarm woke me earlier than my body clock was ready. The time change shocked me. I had to get the van to Battersea Arts Centre in order to fill it with flats, props, costume and materials ahead of the tour of Rotterdam that’s coming up. I’m cutting my fee to bare bones for this drive because I want to support this forthcoming tour. Rotterdam is a wonderful show. It has been recognised with Olivier Awards, but that’s not enough to guarantee ticket sales. Mostly it’s people already involved in theatre who notice the awards. The true test is the court of audience opinion. Go see it. 

It’s a love story. Just that. The themes are wedged into gender and sexual identity, but it’s an intelligent contemplation. It’s mostly a love story. They market and lead with the gender stuff because that’s what’s easy to get hold of in terms of “why this story now?” And to show my hand, I love to see a “non-binary” love story being told tenderly and not seeking controversy. Touring to small communities with this good play about unfamiliar thoughts will be powerful and hopefully will help people shift their empathy a bit. Sexuality and gender is a tricky thing to discuss interpersonally, as many people are extreme in their views one way or another, and others are brought up to avoid the issue. Stories like this help humanise the nuance, and touring it helps open discussion. I’ve watched it a few times, and watched audience members rethink long held assumptions about gender. It’s not an axe being ground. It’s a love story. Just … the themes are unusual.

But yeah, I loaded the van with the set for Rotterdam, to be transported to The Rose in Kingston ahead of their first week starting Thursday. It was me, Faith and Jake. They had been using the facilities at Battersea Arts Centre to dress the set, so we had to take care with the load as it was all pristine. Jake wanted an early start, as he was going to see his mum. Oh fuck, yes, it’s mother’s Day…

Until that moment I’d forgotten the mumness of today. Always just after the anniversary of her death. But she was brilliant, my mother. So glamorous and forthright. A community builder, and a huge personality to boot. I love what she gave me – my kindness, my empathy, my patience, my drive (even if not in the direction she wanted). She’d have been prouder than I am of what I’ve built so far. She’d have LOVED my friends. She was so supportive, despite desperately hoping I’d “get it out of my system.” And like me she’d have been looking to what’s next for me. She would have been setting me up with eligible women left and right, and I’d have thought 80% of them were bores, but it wouldn’t have stopped her. God I miss her. I kind of need that, being utterly disengaged with getting websites…

I hung out with Tanya’s mum tonight. She kind of remembers me, kind of doesn’t, peppered by that fucker Alzheimer’s. We used to get on beautifully twenty years ago. Even without the details we rembered our dynamic. It’s funny. I’m still the same, even if i feel totally different. Happy Mother’s Day. If you can remember your mum, honour her in memory. What a hell of a thing they did for us, wherever we go in terms of their expectations. Mine was marvellous. I bet yours is too.

I told Tanya’s mum how she used to help me out when I was struggling with life stuff. For a moment, through the fog of that bastard disease, I felt her remember. The things we teach people are for life. We don’t need to hold ownership. That’s Parenthood. And we can all do it with anyone. But mums are the best at it … 🙂

(Here’s Jake showing me what I had to get in the van. Aaaa)