Today is the second anniversary of my husband's death, and the family and I were invited to the dedication of a bench in his memory on Whitstable beach. On Friday, my two sons did a gig in his memory at the club which he helped found, Brooke's Blues Bar in London, to raise money for the Macmillan nurses.
I have had a week of headaches, teeth-grinding at night and other obvious stress related symptoms. I can't talk to the children (32, 30, 24 and 22) about this, as he has become nigh on deified. I have gone along with the "we are a close family" for the last two years, including paying for everything he would have paid for, helping out with the sale of his house, paying for the storage of his furniture (which includes several items belonging to me, so I shouldn't complain!) and generally ignoring the absolutely awful circumstances surrounding his death. I'm not going to go into them now, but they'd make a terrific novel. Which I will never write.
But oh, God, how I want to move on. I adore my children, and I'm very grateful for their love and support, but I'm being tethered like a bloody goat. (Come to think of it, I am now a Nanny...)
I am in a foul mood today, as my youngest keeps telling me, and all I want to do is howl, because I still hurt and it's always in front of me. And I can't.
Ah well, on to more normal things. Shouldn't moan about personal things on here, should I? Oh - hang on, it's a diary. Well due to a good deal of research, other things on my mind and having to go to work at the Court on Friday, I'm only up to 25,190 words, a grand total of 5000ish this week. Next week will try and do better. And I've been forced to sign up to new blogger, so I probably need more help from jolly good friends less technologically challenged than I. (Hello, Mandy and Kate?)
Happy days are here again...
See you next week.