Well its been a while, Dads in hospital, in  the stroke ward and i’ve been avoiding having to think about it by being at parties and then thinking about it all the other times. 2 things, Blogging and Working have fallen by the wayside, I have to work because it helps me to buy records, food, alcohol and all the other boring stuff, “the pot”. But Ive now so little respect for my national company in the way it is run, and by the wretched folk who run it, that Ive decided to just ignore it as much I can ignore the sores on my right ankle, they keep flaring up then disappearing for a time. Its odd, but I do lobve a good scratch, like some sort of flea bitten mammal, which of course I may well be. The other problem I have is that as I am constantly complaining about my folks and their lack of a plan going forward, and this is mentally tiring, so much so that I’d rather watch some shit and then forget what It was I’ve just watched. How could some one be so short sighted to not think that life isnt going to change even though it has changed enormously for them, and Dad is still in the hospital for christs sake.

I try to call him every day if I can, but sometimes I don’t, he probably doesn’t want to be the receiver of wise information from his benefactor son. His son who is trying to make progress as to where he’s going to be in 1,4,12 weeks into the future, and yet whenever I make a suggestion as to what we’re going to do to get him home, which may involve even a slight change in the furniture layout of the old house, the defences go up and Mum shuts down, unable to make a decision, not wanting to consider change, she probably hasn’t had to decide much more than which hat to wear at Ascot, let alone how the fuck Dad is going to reach the toilet in the old house, if he ever gets there, which at the moment isn’t looking particularly likely.

The utility room is so damp, the chest freezer is rusty all over, slugs crawl out at night onto the poorly fixed lino, and yet this downstairs room could be converted into a bathroom suite, wheelchair accessible, all the pipes are there and yet the response is to wait another week and then “just see”.

Just seeing isn’t going to get Dad home, just seeing is going to put Dad in a retirement home, where he will stare his way into a stupor as some wretched library music will tinkle on in the background. A living nightmare, for someone who only wants to get home, but I think realises isn’t possible. Change must come, and I know we’ve got some really rocky months and weeks ahead, but we can probably get there amirite? 

I’d never have used that word, especially in this context but it is part of the rules of the game, and Christ knows we need some order amongst all the chaos.