Sorry I’m late, the Dog ate all my writing implements and the hard drive which he fetched out from the laptop casing with finely threaded tail plaits on his remarkably dextrous prehensile tail. Thats why I’m posting this under the B&W Tuesday tab and that’s why I haven’t written anything, that and going back on Faceache, which is regrettably impulsive and somewhere it seems you may need to keep your views to yourself; its like your Mum lives there and you have to hide your fags in the bush outside and spray that minty stuff in your mouth when you come home. Speaking of Mums, I had mine over this weekend, well for Easter, those 3 days alone are enough to lay one out for the same amount of days after for a full decompression. The contradictionary nature of life as a widower with a once strong cohort of fabulous friends one by one crumbling into homes with some form of dementia or passing away with the regularity of a dripping tap, and yet Mum in her strength, in her delusion, in her stubbornness refuses to contemplate the future. Things will probably be ok, things will be ok, and all the while as she  swivels from breakfast room, to kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and the house creaks and groans under the strain of long Bourne injuries, never really remedied, just patched up. She had to catch a Blue Tit the other day who flew  through a hole in the roof somewhere and found him/herself gazing out of the lavender heavy bedroom window, longing for the Ash tree or wherever the nest may be.

Aye its a sad state of affairs for sure, my old bedroom is so musty dusty that as soon as I walk in my nose starts to itch, I don’t think I could physically handle sleeping there any more, I feel the winter has given the house a good kicking, and despite  visits from the guitar playing Vicar, and the occasional neighbour popping in to say hi and a frankly terrifying drive across the county to meet up with the Reform party faithful still flying the flag for Leicester in the 1960s…

“Oh hasn’t it changed? Its a no go zone now, too many people” 

In the car on the 75 mile drive home to drop her off after Easter, she was still tutting at where all the lorries are going and how theres too many people here, but quieter somehow, seemingly to herself as the majority won’t listen anymore and the ones who potentially can listen, can’t listen because they don’t wear their hearing aids because there’s too much external noise; too much background interference. 

It was good for the kids to see Granny and for Granny to see the kids and for Mum to see me and Mrs T, and Benny the Dog, constantly telling us he needs to go out and how he wants a walk and how he’s bored etc etc. But finally it’s back to normal now, the TV is tuned down and I can leave cups wherever I want for longer than 1/2 hour after finishing my tea. I sound ungrateful, I’m not. I want her to move over here selfishly, because I see what a dump the old house is becoming; damp and black mould in the utility room is off the scale, the Lino exhibits a damp sheen, like the floor in Jeremy Fishers house (If I remember my Beatrix Potter correctly), and the smell is that of someone living in a basement for far too long with the window closed and no extractor fan in the shower room. I should know, I did it, and most certainly don’t wish it on my Mum.