I’ve been too busy to check on my downstairs neighbour for a day or so, but it seems she’s on the mend. Time the healer. I’m glad of it. I’m happy to help for while, but I’m not a full time carer and have no desire to be one.
She’s roped the block caretaker to get his wife to cook her packed lunches, and he brings them over in the morning. This is after a few days of her turning her nose up to the plates if boys food Brian and I were bringing. Chicken and veg went down fine but she wasn’t into the pies and steaks and I knew enough not to offer her the curry pasta sausage monstrosity that I made the other night. I love it, but it looks like it’ll murder you, and she’s one who has struggled with food over the years. She can get herself to the loo now without help which is progress. Horrible to be so frail.
She’s been listening to the news again. Apparently Charles is having his prostate worked on and wanted it to be known publically, which is actually a good call. Dad always said his cancer started there and he didn’t check it in time. I expect the GPs are gonna have to bulk buy rubber gloves to cope with the influx of worried men of about my age. I might even go and make myself one of them.
But not today. Today I tried to make sense of some clothes, tried to stay warm and cheerful, tried to think ahead a little.
Now I’m in bed. At nine. Brian is out in Soho and I’m thinking how easy that was every night for years. It’s all still there if we want it. I’m not ready to have a neighbour bring me pie yet.
AlBarclay 