And the beat goes on

And the beat goes on…

Hows your special gay diet? My lunch buddy Nick asked today.

Together we had revolutionalised the office lunch. We’d made it worth eating. Salads have been given a make over, wraps were orgasmic and cous cous was actually worth looking forward to.

But I’ve dumped her in favour of cereal and she thinks I’m stupid. I am stupid. I am just doing it because Hannah said she was and I thought it sounded like a challenge.

Today I bought 3 new cereals and introduced Hannah to the wonders of soya milk. It’s better for you than milk, apparently. And it doesn’t taste like a cow’s bum.

I am enjoying the diet. I’m not getting as hungry as I thought I would. But tomorrow I’m out on the road and I’m a trifle scared that I’m going to have to eat real food and the Special K gods are going to strike down upon me with great vengeance and glorious anger.

I wrote the above on the 14th April. It is now the 27th May and I’m pleased to say the diet worked, I now like porridge.

It worked to make me more aware of what I ate, more boring about what I could eat, and more guilty if I sinned. It worked at making me lose my lunch buddy, destroy more rain forests with my consumption of soya milk and become boringly neurotic about calories.

It also worked to shave off a few pounds, but when you have lost your lunch buddy and there’s no trees left, who cares for pounds?

Hehehe. I do. I thinly do.

1st June – no more diet chat. My June resolution is to stop talking about food and public transport. It’s rubbish. From now on my blogs will be filled with the scrumptious stuff of summer, as it is summer now, I will write only about sunshine and hacky sac and holidays and how June is the best month in the whole calender of months because it means I get to have a birthday.

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Tally Ho

So I had a bright idea on Friday while I was busy counting down the hours till playtime. As I was about to embark on a 48 hour bender for Laurence’s birthday, I knew I’d be drinking enough to write home about. And so, rather than rant on about how a train was late or a ticket inspector dared to demand my ticket, I thought I would do a little observing of my drinking habits.

I’ve never monitored how much I drink when out on the lash, but I often wonder why I don’t stop drinking when drunk, why it just becomes automatic to keep going to the bar, and why, when I care so much about calories, I don’t care what I drink. (it’s liquid, how can it be fattening?)

So my brainwave was, to do a little tally in my notebook, like they do in prison, for every drink I consumed over the weekend. Not to try and control it, but to try and see how much I consume. I hear the government thinks three drinks and over is binge drinking, so they’ll be in for a treat when this tally adds up.

By the time Mike and I arrived for dinner at Laurence’s house on Friday night, I was already drunk. We’d had a few on the train and then bumped into a friend of ours on the walk to Lazza’s, (recognised by his bottom.) and as I had hardly eaten all day (hungover from the night before and couldn’t stomach anything…) the wine had gone straight to my head.

Arrived at Laurence’s, delicious tuna steak dinner, few more bottles of wine, relatively early night to save ourselves for the following, bigger, evening. Did I once remember to tally in my notebook? Did I hell. I’m guessing I managed two bottles of wine. Take that, Gordon Brown.

Saturday, Lazza had arranged for proceedings to kick off at the Sports Bar at 3pm. The idea of starting that early daunted me, and I knew I’d be the first to sleep if I did, so I went for lunch and shopping with my Ma and Sis first. Why not just drink soft drinks for the first few hours, suggested my sister. Er, no, it doesn’t really work like that, Tammi. Laurence would never allow it.

I would like the world to know, all at least, my five readers, that Busabi is the best restaurant in the whole world, and I get sad just thinking about how long it will be until I next get to eat there. I had monkfish thai green curry and it was so good I don't even see the point in other food. It is a sin that there are no Busabi's outside of London.

Arrived at the Sports Bar (the worst pub I’ve ever had to go in. Disgusting. Chicken wings and snake bite everywhere.) at 5pm and started with a cider. I was right, Laurence and his beer swilling, sexist, racist mates were already drunk and I was very pleased the infallible Mike was there for me to sit under the wing of.

And so the night went on. I decided I was bored of always drinking rose so drank high percentage cider all night, at the same speed I’d drink rose. I don’t remember much.

Tammi wouldn’t let me take my massive camera to the pub because she, for some reason, thought I’d get really pissed and mislay it. I don’t know what gave her that impression. As I complained this to Gareth, he pointed out that rather than having no pictures of the night, I'd have no pictures of the night AND no camera if I'd taken it. Stupid other people always being right with their clever suggestions and their smug rightness.

But being without a camera meant I had to try and remember the funny things that happened instead. And for some reason, I started remembering things as if they were photos. I have snapshots in my mind, hazy memories, of Mike doing terrible cartwheels down a cobbled street to try and impress a street performer who had just done 5 flips and a somersault. Bemused, the performer didn’t really get why Mike got a louder cheer. Laurence and Willy G impersonating Jack Bauer on the London Underground (it involves pretending your fingers are guns and doing a lot of roly poly’s while shouting ‘Jack Bauer’ a lot), Laurence wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and my dress (we were playing 4 Kings) Laurence’s balls falling out of his boxer shorts… I’m glad that’s just a mental picture and doesn’t have to be inflicted on anyone else’s eyes. They were very pink and I don’t think I’ve ever shut my eyes more quickly. Scarred for life.

My memory comes back in glimpses. I vaguely remember trying to do a citizen’s arrest on a policeman because he wouldn’t let me pee in his hat while pretending I was pregnant. (apparently that’s the law). We picked up a Polish girl on the Underground and Laurence brought her back to the flat. Brave girl. We started playing 4 kings, for which I was rubbish because my energy had been sapped by all the cider and I wanted to sleep. I guess when you are not trying to sleep with a Polish girl you don’t have the energy to sing Bruce Springsteen songs and down Vodka. Maybe I just don't like vodka. Maybe Laurence is an alcoholic. But I stayed up long enough to swap clothes with Laurence and watch Mike and Laurence kiss.

In the morning, Mike went to check on Roma, our new Polish friend. All I can say is, today could have gone very differently. It could have gone like this:

Well, officer, we met her on the tube, she was sober, she’d been at work. We took her back to the flat where she drank most of a bottle of vodka. No, we'd never met her before. Why is she wearing Mike’s trousers and a bra? It was a game, officer. She must have passed out. Now she’s dead. Choked on her own vomit. But we didn’t mean any harm, Laurence just likes bringing girls back to his flat in the hopes that they will sleep with him. Please can we go home now?

Luckily, although she had been sick in her sleep and the sick was down her bra, in her hair, on her face, and quickly seeping through the sheets, mattress protector and mattress, the girl was alive. Whoop whoop! The girl was alive.

She refused the offer of a shower as I think she knew Mike and I were leaving and she’d have to be alone with Laurence. So she came with us to the tube, sick still highly visible in her hair.

What a lovely weekend. I feel so enriched, so wholesome and so soulful. Did I remember to tally my drinks the second night either? Thank goodness, no. I don’t want to know. I don’t even like drinking anymore. Mike and I had a long discussion about how bored of it we are. I want to wake up without a headache, my skin having not aged ten years over night, the smell of kebab not still permeating the room. I want to rise, do something fun that I’ll remember with my day, and if I do spend money I want it to be on something I can still hold the next day, not something that makes me wake up with nothing to show for myself but a new set of bruises.

So I’m giving it all up and eloping. Aren’t we, Gareth?

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A hooligan’s game…

Watched by gentlemen. And now, me and Hannah.

Mr Hannah, aka Patrick Doyle, invited us to the live final of the Heineken Cup Final between Munster (Muuuunstar!) and Toolouse. I was pretty excited about charming Patrick with my opening line of ‘so Patrick, who do you think is going Toolouse?’ but I think I built it up in my head too much as it took two bottles of wine and half of the game (by which time they were, in fact, losing) for me to find the courage.

The last time I sat in a stadium this big and witnessed a spectacle this spectacular was the opening ceremony of the Olympics, Sydney 2000. Actually, I did see Pink Floyd play at Earl’s Court last year, but my brother had force fed me a very large and toxic marijuana cigarette beforehand so all I remember is being slightly sleepy and wondering why there were so many bright lights on the dark side of the moon. Couldn’t someone turn them down a bit so I could have a snooze?

But this, like the Olympics, was amazing. The atmosphere was warm and contagious. I can count the things I know about rugby on one hand but it didn’t matter. The important thing was how much fun Hannah and I had from start to finish.

Our train to Cardiff was packed and we ended up sitting with some OAP rugby fans who kindly told us where the best places were to go shopping. They all had lovely little Irish accents and to be sure, I wanted one too. Hannah thought the one I sat next to was a bit of a dish but he reminded me of that pregnant guy in America.

Settling down to watch the game, I watched as a medic ran on to massage a player’s upper thigh. With my eye sight, from my seat, it looked a bit like he was…you know… and so I said to Hannah. It seems to be my curse that I accidentally swear in front of my friend’s fathers, when all I really want to do is impress them.

‘What?’ asked Patrick after I’d pointed out the medic giving the player a hand job.

Oh-oh.

But lo! This father wasn’t schooled at the same stuffy Muslim school as my Switzerland friend’s, so when Hannah repeated my observation, he laughed whole heartedly and slapped his thigh. Phew. Still room to charm him. Still room for my Tooloose pun.

As our journey to Cardiff was so uneventful I thought I’d be able to write a blog where I don’t have to rant about the downfalls of our public transport system.

But then we tried to get home. Maybe, after a Cup Final, they hadn’t expected 40,000 people to try and get on one three-carriaged train. Maybe they're all just idiots. We stood outside the station for about 7 hours and when we were finally let on a train, it took us to the wrong station.

From there, we had to get a bus, as did 40,000 other people. But I managed to squeeze on to one bus and I saw Hannah being eclipsed by burlier, bigger people left behind.

I was one of the last people to board and I turned back to grab her from the sea of hands below. So did my nemesis, some pointless and annoying human being who decided she wanted to be the last to board too.

‘We’ve only got room for one more!’ shouted the driver. I felt like I was on the last safety boat for the Titanic. All those left behind will drown in a sea of doom! Only room for one more!

‘Let my girlfriend on! I’m not going without Hannah!’ I screamed.

‘Let my boyfriend on!’ shouted boring face. Only one of us can win a seat for our other half. She is bigger than me and the driver looks like he’s going to have a small heart attack.

I was just about to give up and step off the bus when I heard chanting coming from inside the bus.

No, not ‘We love Munster’ but ‘WE WANT HANNAH!’ over and over again. The bus wanted Hannah! In slow motion, the other girl was ousted from the steps as I leant forward and grabbed Hannah from the sea of desperates who’d have to wait for the next bus, to the whoops, roars and cheers of a bus full of people who’d decided Hannah was the Chosen One.

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Don't get spooked

Having said a tearful goodbye to Garton, I arrived at Gareth's in tears. He took me under his wing and suggested a weekend in the country might be just what I needed. Our next Big Adventure. For Gazza and I are making quite a thing of going on adventures. Conveniently, this is also part of my big plan for moving into a new chapter. Less getting drunk with Cesca, more rambling, escaping, discovering and happy snapping with Gareth. Less getting drunk with Cesca, more reading. Less getting drunk with Cesca, more yoga. You get the idea, Kim MK 2008 is bloody wholesome.

So, I better find my passport, I'm off to Wales! Whoop whoop! Meeting some of Gareth's family as well. We took a tent so we could spend one night at one with nature and one night with Gareth's grandparents.

First night was lovely, I ate my body weight in sunflower oil, and it was great. I eat so many salads it was lovely to live by my Dad's rule 'don't reject anything given to you when you are a guest' - OK! Brilliant, I can eat all this fried food and it's just me being polite. It was heaven.

Avril, Gareth's nan, made me instantly at ease with her warm smile, soft Welsh accent and mammoth albums of Gareth before he got blessed with good looks. One picture in particular was worth considering thievery for - because the world of facebook needs to see it.

Next day we camped beside a lake, beneath the trees (fluttering and dancing in the breeze...). It was so beautiful, serene and perfect. Not another camper in sight. To work up an appetite, we decided to walk the perimeter of the lake.

Pretty sure, as we battled bog after bog, that it was Gareth's idea. After each bog had been crossed it was a toss up whether it was worse to carry on or go back, knowing how many were behind us and hoping there were none ahead.

What more could I have asked for to take my mind off losing my wing man, my Cesca, than the sight of my boyfriend chasing after and trying unsuccessfully to grab hold of a sheep's horns? It brought a little tear of happiness to my eyes.

Back at the tent I collected firewood in my bare feet while Gareth...I'm not entirely sure what he was doing. His hair? (I later found out he'd gone to clean his muddy shoes and had fallen in some brambles). As I collected the firewood I was taken back to my times with Dad, collecting and chopping firewood on the Isle of Wight, him teaching me the best way to use an axe, a spanner, a jack... and I missed him. I always miss him when I'm doing something he'd be proud of. I don't miss him when I'm in the pub because I know he hates that side of my life. But when I'm flexing my guns picking up massive logs, I know Dad would be proud.

Everything was going swimmingly - long walk, bbq, sunset, roaring fire.

Then, from nowhere, a man clad only in black appeared from nowhere, huge binoculars around his neck.

Just the two of you? he asked nervously as I jumped out of my skin.

Gareth kindly took it upon himself to tell the potential rapist that yes, it was just the two of us, and we had no reception on our mobiles and in case he needed to know how long he had to torture us before anyone noticed we were missing, we weren't getting picked up until the morning.

You can't have a fire here, he said. Ok, we'll put out the only sign from afar that we're here, then you can rape us in the dead of night. Yes? Yes, that's fine, you can stay, he says, walking away.

Don't get spooked, he says as he turns back. Lots of weirdos out tonight.

With our fire extinguished and my imagination running wild, we retreated into the tent.

'Funny how he didn't have a torch, Gareth points out. And he wanted to know if we were alone. And we told him we were. And that we had no reception. Brilliant!

Every rustle made me jump as every horror movie I'd ever watched amalgamated into one, fine, gruesome killing of me.

We tried to go to sleep but the tea towel I'd brought instead of a duvet and the napkin I'd brought instead of a mattress meant it was the most freezing and uncomfortable night I'd ever endured. Every time Gareth moved and I lost the warmth of the spoon, my temperature dropped a further five degrees and at times I wondered if we'd make it through.

So you can imagine my delight at waking up alive.

I came home smiling.

Yes, an era came to an end on Saturday. But the new one is going to be just as fun, as I become one of those adults who wakes up without a hangover on Saturdays. Ok, not every Saturday. But I would like to regularly wake up without a hangover. That's my new aim.

That and to get guns like Madonna.

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End of an era

Walking arm in arm with Cesca would usually guarantee some kind of wolf whistle or respectful request for us to 'get our kit off' from the gentlemen who frequent the outside of the Raymond pub.

But this time they refrained, perhaps because our skirts weren't short enough or we weren't showing our multi-tasking skills by balancing a baby on one hip while shooting up in the other arm. Or maybe it was because we were both in tears.

We were off to the park for our final goodbye. I adore Cesca. Since The Big Weekend in 2006, our friendship has grown into a spectacular bond that I didn't know could have existed. We laughed, we cried (well, I mostly cried) we drank and we occasionally stayed sober. We swapped clothes, we stormed into pubs, we gesticulated, we touched hearts.

Then one day 8 months ago Cesca put an ad on facebook. 'Cesca and Mikey need a housemate or two.' They got two responses. Mine, reading simply 'shotgun' and one from a then unknown to me but now only describable as bloody brilliant, Cordelia.

I'm sure if they had got 400 responses they still would have chosen us, (well that's what they tell us) but either way, we won and we moved in.

The fun began. The first few months were a heady cocktail of laughter, boozy dinners, late night discussions, massive amounts of cheese consumption, games and laughter. Oh and once or twice, we watched TV. But Mike had to draw us a diagram so we could turn it on when he wasn't there. I'm sure it helped him feel like the Man of the House, that and the fact he lived with three girls.

But we never talked about periods. (ok, once, but Mike got such a moan on we never dared again) We talked about wine and beer, pies and lives, careers and fears. Every night was a guaranteed funfest and I'll never forget it.

People warned me not to live with my friends. 'It'll ruin it,' they said. Er, no, in your face, it's made us closer and I wouldn't swap it for the world. The only thing I regret is that I didn't mop enough. I'm sorry Cesca, I should have mopped more, to show my respect for the house, but somehow the mop and I didn't get on so well. However I definitely beat Cords in the mopping department so 1-0 Kim.

I've never had a best mate like Cesca before. Mike, Lazza, brilliant. Even people from the past - Rory, Iszy, Swanny... amazing people though they were, they served to further confirm my theory that boys are more fun. (except Iszy, she's a fun girl) Boys have better banter, better wit, are not offended by anything and drink without worrying about calories.

Then along came Cesca and showed me a girl who can drink and swear any man under the table.

As she prepared to leave the country, I realised it was to be the end of a very fun era. We can tell ourselves it'll be back, but it won't. By the time Cesca gets back, if indeed she choses to come back, I will hopefully be writing a column in a hot country. By the time we're all back in the same country, we'll have pesky little children selfishly expecting us to change their dirty nappies instead of drink wine.

So here's to the era, Cesca, it's been a riot and I'll never forget a minute of it (that I haven't already).

But as my sister-in-law pointed out, the end of an era is followed by the start of a new one. And I've already got a list as long as my arm to make sure the next era is every bit as good, although importantly very different, from the last...

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Kimradeship

It seems like all I do is rant about public transport but it’s only because I hate it more than celery and this is confirmed by every time I’m forced to use it something absolutely ridiculous and absurd happens to me, further cementing my hatred for the system and making me realise that maybe celery isn’t so bad after all.

Mike even put it in a risotto the other day and I didn’t notice.

First of all I’m annoyed I even have to take this journey. Bristol to Middlesbrough and back in 13 hours. The woman I’m going to interview has a heartbreaking story and I’m looking forward to delving, but it was raining as I walked to the station so my shoes and socks are soaked and my jeans are drenched from the hem to the knee.

How did I end up in England? I’m Dutch Polynesian! Which ancestor do I have to thank for deciding it was too hot and beautiful out there and grey, rainy England was a far better place for our kind?

On train, chai, Empire magazine, happy. Along comes the ticket inspector to ruin my day. I hand over my ticket and he asks for my Young Person Railcard.

Then it hits me. I booked the ticket days ago over the phone and not once since then has my tiny little memory thought it worth nudging me so I actually put the validation into my bag.

Er…it’s at home, I stammer.

So, Matt, Duty Manager, king of the gays, proceeds to tell me I can either pay £100 fine or get off at the next station and talk to the police. (the Transport Police. They aren’t real are they?)

Well, can’t you just take my details and I’ll bring it to the station tonight?

No, that’s against the rules. THE GODDAM RULES! They are the bane of my life.

I’m clearly not some 17 year old scaly trying to get one over on the system. Please, I beg him, I can’t get off at the next stop, I just can’t. But I can’t pay £100 either.

Tell that to the police at the next station, he says sharply.

Thanks Matt.

This is a work trip and I don’t want to be £100 out of pocket. It takes me two days to earn that.

‘Have a think about it and I’ll be back in a minute,’ he says, returning my ticket. I don’t know why he made me cry but he did. I’m annoyed with myself for forgetting it, for possibly costing myself £100 for a trip I didn’t even want to take. I hate my stupid memory, it lets me down so often.

I call my boyfriend. He’ll have an answer. Back when Dad lived in England, I’d call him expecting him to have the answer to my most trivial of problems. Dad, the toaster isn’t working. Dad, the lights don’t work. Dad, my car won’t start. Then Dad would calmy (but no doubt excitedly) talk me through the mechanics of a toaster, a fuse or an engine. We both loved it.

Now Daddy’s in far off distant lands, Gareth has taken his mantle so he better bloody have an answer or he’s dumped.

‘Just tell him it’s a genuine mistake and ask to pay the full fare instead of the fine. Then slip it through expenses.’

Magic! He’s a keeper.

Matt (said through gritted teeth because he’s on my hit list) returns half an hour later and takes the ticket of the new man sitting next to me. He doesn’t even look me in the eye and disappears.

Holy moly! I LOVE MATT! Off the hit list, onto the Christmas card list.

But then we get to Birmingham and a new manager boards.

‘Please have your tickets and railcards ready for inspection,’ comes the female voice.

Oh god, a woman. I’ll never win her over with my winning charm and bashful eyes. In she comes… lo! Her name tag reads ‘Kim – Manager’ She’s a Kim too!

Can I see your railcard? She asks. Er..no. Where is it? At home, I reply sheepishly.

I begin to explain myself, but Kim holds up a hand of protest. She has sensed my name is also Kim and, like a true trooper, butts in.

‘I’ll let you off,’ she smiles. Go Team Kim! She had no way of knowing my name, but us Kims, we know each other. I love her.

I know it’s all going to go tits up later and I’ll be charged full whack by some jobsworth, probably called Neil (I’m got no kinship with Neils) but for now I’m riding the wave of comradeship.

Kimradeship.

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"I've been trying to die all day"

My incredibly old grandma has just been taken into hospital after possibly having a stroke, or a fall, she’s not quite sure. As her short term memory is now serving about as well as a goldfish, she has no idea why she’s in hospital or how she got there. She does remember a heavy handed attendant being too forceful with her and she brought that up about 15 times during our hour visit.

I’m sure he was just doing his job, I assure her. You can’t be too heavy handed with a 94 year old, surely, for fear of snapping her. Grandma doesn't hear my assurance, but there's no doubt the nurses down the hall hear every word of her complaint. Every time.

I read her medical notes. ‘Patient refused all assistance. Becoming very agitated.’

To them, she’s just another old person. To me, she’s my amazing grandmother who flew spitfires in the war and can recite about 43,000 different poems, limericks and proverbs. I want to shake the nurses and say HEY! That's Benedetta Willis you know! You ought to bow!

But as I sit on her bedside and survey the ward, I see dozens of old people, who I’m sure all have their own story to tell, their own wars lived through, their own battles battled. But to me, they are just more old people. I look at them in pity, hoping I never get that old. And I realise Grandma, Grand as she is, is just another old person. But as long as each old person is more than just another old person to someone, then that's all that really matters.

None of them are in bed, obviously not allowed at 2pm, so they sit besides their beds, wrinkly and old, awaiting their next visitor or meal. It’s a strange existence and makes me shudder. Not until we reach Grandma’s bed do I feel any kind of emotion other than fear. Then I see Grandma and I feel love and worry and I rush to her side.

As soon as she sees me, she holds out her old, wrinkly, soft hands to meet mine.

‘Darling,’ she says, ‘I keep trying to get them to kill me but they won’t.’

She’s had enough. She doesn’t know why she’s still alive, why she’s survived her husband, one of her sons and many of her friends. She doesn’t want to know, she just wants it to be over.

I love her dearly and selfishly want her to be around forever to tell me I need to find a good man and make sure I keep my kidney's warm. I want her to be around forever because she hasn't finished telling me about the man she would have married, had he not become a Japanese prisoner of war. I want her to be around forever because, at 94, she still has her wits about her and still knows when to whip put a shot of sarcasm. I want her to be around forever because I love her.

But I also understand her want to die. It's not that she doesn't love her loved ones. It's that the quality of life for a 94 year old must be rubbish. And this conjures up all my thoughts on euthanasia which I'm not going to go into now because my dinner is nearly ready and I can't be bothered. Suffice to say - I'm for it. If I want to die, I should be able to.

Her hearing is terrible and it makes her seem mad. I’m sure the nurses must think so. But she isn’t. She’s quite sane. She's just refusing to admit she can’t hear and so says something, anything, in return of your sentence, hoping it’ll fit into conversation, but it never does.

Are you ok Grandma? Do you remember what happened?

No, I haven’t had any pudding, comes the reply.

If I die, she says, don’t worry about me because I’ll be happy. Here, I can’t stop crying.

Grandma lives alone in the Isle of Wight, far from any of her loved ones, and the thought of her sitting alone, crying, asking to be taken from this life, sends tears down my cheeks in streams. It makes me want to give up my life and go and play scrabble with her until her dying day.

‘You don’t know what’s really going on in the world until you come to a place like this,’ Grandma says wisely. Hide all the old people in wards like this, we do, so we can think they don’t exist. But they do. They exist because we are desperate to keep everyone alive for as long as possible. Everyone in this ward is well past their sell by date, some look like they haven’t had a visitor since they arrived, and all over the country there are wards specifically for the old. The heroes of the second world war, slumped in wards, old, decrepit, dribbling and deaf.

Her arms shake as she reads the notes we’ve written her. We try the mammoth task of explaining power of attorney to her and that she understands. She might be about to die and we need to prepare ourselves. ‘Yes, your father should take control,’ she says, handing the paper back as she shakes like a leaf. I can see her desperately trying to tell her body to give up.

But she’s a tough old boot. She’s been saying she wants to die since before her 90th birthday. She’s a bit of an eeyore, you see. ‘Your father doesn’t even know I’m in here,’ she whimpers. Er, yes he does, Grandma, that’s how we know you're here. You spoke to him yesterday? Oh, did I? Well, that’s something, I suppose.

Her son, my Dad, Bryan, is by far her best child. He does everything for her and although he moved to Malaysia 5 years ago, always returns to her little bungalow to fix things and calls her all the time. He lived on the isle of wight for years but realised she wasn’t on her way out and he had to live his life for himself. But it made me realise what families of Alzheimer's go through. To think how worried he must be, thousands of miles away, and calling her constantly, and then she just mutters that he doesn’t remember her. Five minutes after we’d gone, she had probably forgotten that we’d been. So I guess we go to satisfy our own guilt. Guilt at only spending an hour with her as it was, and not an entire weekend. My family assure me she gets tired when we stay any longer but I can’t help feeling our fleeting visits aren’t enough. In other cultures, aren’t the old revered? Respected? They’d never chuck them all in a ward to be forgotten and hidden. The family looks after the old, just as they looked after you.

Marie Ann, my beloved other mother, came with us. Grandma asked her how her father was and Marie Ann had to break the news that he died a month ago.

‘I’ve been trying to die all day,’ Grandma retorts. I start getting worried that Pip must be getting freaked out by it all as she’s being very quiet. Grandma! I shout, You can’t say that! No, she replies, you can’t just try and die can you?

No, Pip comes in defiantly, because we love you too much.

It falls on deaf ears, literally, but I heard her, the little darling. Are you ok Pipsy? I say as we hug. I know hospitals are horrible. I’m starting to get worried she’ll have a fit and we’ll have to pull up another NHS trolley. No they’re not, they’re alright Kim. You’ll be alright, she says as she pulls my jumper down to protect my kidneys, as she always does.

I think I’m worrying about everyone too much. Grandma is happily tucking into the biscuits Tammi bought her, Pip is quietly sapping up all the information being spoken around her and no where near having a fit. Everything seems hunky dory.

So off we trot back to civilisation. Job done. Grandma attended to, left in the ward with all the other oldies. Each with their own story no one cares about any more. Each dying slowly.

Makes my special K diet all seem a bit frivolous and superfluous now. Although, let’s end this one on a light note, I’m bloody loving the new slim kim. Even my mum said I was looking skinny. Whoop whoop! It’s all about getting your mother to worry about your new gaunt physique. I’m going to try and get down to nine stone, just to see if I can, and then I’ll stop being the neurotic diet freak I’ve become over the last 2 weeks and return to normal. Although not quite return, as I would like to stay skinny forever. I haven’t been very good at the diet. The lack of proper food during the day means you are meant to have lots of vegetables in the evening and last week I ate: burger and chips, meatballs and spagetti and a pie. But I must be doing something (unhealthily) right.

This week I’m not going to drink until Friday, and I’m going to eat loads of vegetables. There…even talking about Special K has quite taken my mind of old age and death and misery. I think I can go to bed now and be assured I won’t dream I’m dying

(maybe of starvation).

** footnote 1 - The next day Marie Ann returned and asked Grandma who her biscuits were from. I don't know, she said, sounding surprised. They just appeared! Worth the visit then.

** footnote 2 - So much for not drinking till Friday. Got bloody drunk last night and had dinner with some lesbians who had their hands down each other's pants all night. It didn't annoy me because they were lesbians, it annoyed me full stop. Get a room lezzers! I hate overtly public displays of affection. I'm trying to have a conversation with lezzer one and lezzer two is groping her tits. Made me so annoyed I've decided never to become a lesbian.

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