A Way Out

I realise that something inside me has broken and I am no longer functional. I plan to do this and this and this. And then I come home, look at the whole heap of things undone, curl up on a bed, not even my bed because my bed makes me itch uncontrollably, and let's not even talk about the mosquitoes, read for a few minutes and then fall asleep.

Avoidance. Is that a word?

I know denial is.

And I wake up late in the half dark caused by the early morning rain...have some stale bread for breakfast (note to self: buy a few new loaves), and Dadda quavers out from the bed: "Jenny, did you buy what I asked you to?"

And I say: "What?"

And he says: "The two birthday cards."

It's Francis's birthday on September 4. He came one month early next year. At first it was touch and go, but then he survived and grew strong and happy.

It's Uncle Solomon's birthday on September 14, a birthday he shares with someone else I have not talked to for four years. Well, I did send her a birthday card four years ago, but she didn't acknowledge it. I think that was the last card I sent her. No more. And now I know she's alive (for I would have heard if she died, maybe), but other than that, I know nothing.

Took the professor out last night (to Mum's Place because I think the food there is so good) and Addy and Cindy joined us at the end. It was a nice night. Thought Ian was looking quite rundown, ill even, and asked him if he was having any issues. No, he said, just travelling to a whole bunch of countries in a short space of time, as usual. Not something he can continue doing, he thinks. I agree. I ask him to go for a physical when he gets back to Australia. And cut down on the travel.

I have to gird my loins and take the dogs out for a walk. Elliott has scrambled under the bed, keeping me in sight, to remind me of my duties. The other two dogs are silent outside. Usually, Bruno would have started to whimper. But the thing is, the dogs outside can poop and pee behind the car. Elliott doesn't really have a place to do it except for the bathroom, and that's no good as Dadda usually goes completely insane when he does that.

Dadda is still sick. I came back last night to him coughing up a lung. I made him the honey lemon concoction (which reminds me, I have to do that again before I leave) and he sipped it and chatted with me about what is happening at work (yes, we have a digital edition, so there is still work to do, it's not a three-month holiday). His room is so dusty I need to get someone over to clean it.

I went to ESH to get the number of a plumber and an electrician. I called the plumber and he said he would come on Saturday, then he didn't answer his phone all Saturday and Sunday, then he called me on Monday to say he was coming over (could not, Dadda had gone to hospital and there would be no one in the house), then he called to say he could come on Tuesday and didn't. About this time, I have lost all faith in him and will try to get another plumber and electrician. No use sticking to the ones who can't be bothered to keep appointments.

There is so much to do. And when I see what needs doing, instead of doing it, I curl up in the bed that is not mine, and read strange books of fiction, or something on the Kindle.

I wish there was a way out of this mess and I wish I had the energy to take it.