The weather is spring-like this morning, and that’s glorious.I have an essay to complete so I’m on the way to the uni library, but stopped at the beach at Colwyn Bay to drink coffee and have the breeze on my face.
Beach
The weather is spring-like this morning, and that’s glorious.I have an essay to complete so I’m on the way to the uni library, but stopped at the beach at Colwyn Bay to drink coffee and have the breeze on my face.
It will do
It’s been a sad week all told.
A troll rather stupidly asked why Ive been talking about death so much recently
I’ve been to two funerals this week and work in a hospice !
Duh
Go figure!
I watched myself interact with my colleagues today, and noted their movements too. A hug here, a touch on the arm there. Ruth’s arm through mine, a rub of a shoulder there by Tracy who was half joking about me wearing my Christmas jumper to the service
Reassuring touches, like Elephants touching trunks when frightened by a herd death
We are all animals really.
Tonight I couldn’t settle, until Mary climbed onto the couch next to me.
Typical of the Welsh , she threw herself backwards into the crook of my arm and there fell asleep with her head up.
Ok It’s not fingers running through your hair until you fall asleep kinda contact you’ve craved all week
But it will do………..
Yma o hyd -
Written in 1983, Yma O Hyd is a song of defiance against loss of Welsh Culture and language.
Written and sung by Daffydd Iwan, it has become a popular song at football and rugby matches but today I heard it for the first time at Ann’s funeral and was greatly moved by it.
Twenty five nursing staff turned up from the hospice, a phenomenal number given our small ward numbers and I wish that we could’ve gone in uniform as we used to do in the 1980s before infection management, audit and risk assessment were the words du jour.
Turning up in uniform with the female nurses stiff in their black capes, was always seen as a sign of deep respect.
Ann’s service spoke of love and affection for a woman who was so very loved and respected and those are the hardest of services to deal with because emotions are so very high.
The crematorium was packed to overflowing which spoke volumes with mourners standing several deep in the vestibule in front of the chapel .
As the words Ry’n ni yma o hyd “ We’re still here” rang out
The congregation were given rose petals to place gently on Ann’s coffin
Sweet
A few years ago I remember nursing an Indian lady who had been admitted . She was in her late 60s and although she had a large number of visitors from her extended family, she had never married or had children of her own.
All of this lady's personal care was carried out by female staff but I do remember one occasion when she required a turn in bed and only one female support worker and I were available to do the deed.
I explained the situation to the patient and assured her that by folding the sheets in a certain way, I would not compromise her modesty, and she agreed I could help with a quiet passivity.
Just before I started to pull back the covers, I remember the lady reached over to her locker to pull out a face flannel which she placed over her own face before the turn, and I remember the support worker ( a delightful Welsh lass called Ann ) putting her hand over her own mouth in a gesture of sympathy.and concern
Even though the lady agreed to me to help, she just could not face to watch
me complete this everyday and usually unthinking procedure.She was just too ashamed
With great presence of mind, the support worker took the flannel away and gestured to the patient that I would close my eyes during the whole turn, and I would do as I was told , which the patient agreed to with a huge sigh. She took charge of the procedure and treated me with an appropriate “ bless him” attitude which suited the moment . I bowed to her gentleness and instinct.
I shut my eyes and the turn was done, without me seeing an inch of uncovered flesh.
I loved Ann for this moment
.....a bit of sweet humanity.
It is Ann’s funeral tomorrow, an unexpected funeral for sure,
I, like everyone at St Davids Hospice shall miss her greatly
Memory Lanes
In the early 1980s my friendship group dispersed to Universities and hospitals around the country.
We’ve all done ok for ourselves, with the sad exception of Ian Parry who became a renown freelance photographer based in Tooting, but who sadly died in a Russian Cargo plane leaving Bucharest in December 1989 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ian_Parry
Before our natural parting of the ways, and as avid CB enthusiasts, we spent much time at the more liberal houses of the group’s parents, drinking tea by the gallon, and hanging out in untidy lumps as adolescents do. It was the funeral, of one of those parents today. May ( Mother of Janet ( whose CB handle I have forgotten ) and Diane, who was known as Cherry Blossom.
May’s door was always open to teenagers and I was nice to be there today, to acknowledge the fact and to support old friends both of whom , I haven’t seen for 35 years.
I had forgotten that years ago I had given May a small figurine of Lorne Green as she was obsessed with the man after seeing him in Bonanza as a girl. It was with her in the coffin,I was told in a whisper, when I joined the meet and greet line.
I liked the fact that the Bonanza theme tune was played as everyone got up to leave the service hall, even though I had the urge to gallop to the music like Miranda Hart did on her tv programme .
I walked out with Helen a charming, horsey public school girl of my former group who had blossomed into a gentle fifty something Priest who has recently returned to wales.
We smiled together as The Bonanza music filled the hall and the curtains closed silently.
Sunday Morning
Storm Kathleen continues to whistle it’s way across North Wales tonight. It was peaceful at dusk when I drove to work, so much so, that I stopped at Colwyn Bay Beach to photograph the metal silhouettes of the holiday makers there.
It’s overcast again, and like many bloggers have shared recently, I too long for for the sun to return, strong enough to dry out the patio of green algae or the mud from the farm tractor wheels to be set into a proper dust, which billows upwards after they pass the cottage in great clouds.
In Sunday tomorrow and apart from sleeping in for a few hours , I have nothing planned.
Lunch out would be nice but everyone’s busy with, what my depressed friend always describes as “ family time” and I get that. I’ve told them to call me when they feel like that.
I can always do lunch out!
So I think I will buy a chicken and do a full roast
With mash and roast potatoes and dripping Yorkshires’
With golden gravy and sweet piles of carrots.
God’s own country.
The Welsh can have boneless leftovers and I can light the fire and watch some Netflix.
Next week, I’ve got two funerals to go to. So my big woolcoat will take some bashing.
I will leave you with a few favourite video clips
The delightfully actorish Catherine Russell for starters , who reminds me very much of Chic Eleanor
This is kelda, she’s looking for more followers , I’m loving her gentle humour too and hope to recruit her to the Flower Show Committee soon..please follow her videos link below
The Lisping Choir
My favourite Spanish lisping choir is now smoking ! How very non PC
I love this to death.
It brightened up a long night
Looking forward to get to bed today
Hey ho
Perfect Days
I’ve reflected on yesterday’s blog, the subject of which , seemed to have gotten lost in the telling.
My choice of wording to describe , what I see is the second nastiest condition after MND , stands.
To me, the word cunt is synonymous with the biggest exclamation of hate. It’s “ gender” is immaterial , to me it’s not misogynistic at all, but more guttural .
Anyhow the word stands and if you as readers decide to go because of it , I wish you well
Today’s blog is lighter though Perfect Days is a film that could be seen as subdued by some. Well worth seeing, it’s a gentle tale of days-in-the-life of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho) a middle aged toilet cleaner in Tokyo. Hirayama lives a life full of ritual and routine, he reads and listens to Nina Simone, and photographs trees around his never changing work routine.
Very slowly we learn snippets about him but over all, we experience his capacity to see the wonderful in the ordinary.
A shaved down simple world.
I have no spare money at the moment, it’s a product of shortening my hours at work
It’s not a complaint , just an observation.
Vinegar Tit commentators will no doubt remind me that I do go to the theatre more than the average aging homosexual , but I counter that with the fact that I don’t really live an extravagant lifestyle. I drive an old second hand car, I watch a tv no bigger than large book on its side and I’ve one classy item of clothing and that’s a funeral woollen coat from Marks and Sparks
So, if I was honest I HAVE been worried about paying the second year of my counselling course fees , due in September
But serendipity has smiled at me once again
And I smile and raise a glass to whoever is watching over me in this , the autumn of my life.
On spec I explored my electricity bill yesterday and realised the bill was estimated rather than based on readings that I was sure I had sent in.
I rang in
Two hours later I was still “ discussing “ my payments in rather a robust manner until, in a fit of genius ,the call taker suddenly asked me to photograph my meter which lies over the front door.
Moments later, she laughed and told me I was suddenly over 600£ in credit and I told her I could have kissed her.
600£ into the kitty
Buoyed up I checked my Welsh Water account and realised I was overly in credit in that account too ! Another 200£ into my fee account!
Then I checked the yellow biscuit jar now pride of place underneath the art wall……this has been my Piggy Bank since a bought it three years ago, where cheques and birthday money , and money from eBay sales and the odd tenner found in Jean pants have been pushed, alongside pound coins from underneath the sofa, under the rubber seal in the washing machine and inside Bluebell
The total amount £196.02
So I’m just shy of a grand
How great is that!!!!!
Five hundred pounds to find until September
That’s doable, and I’m hoping for a tax rebate this year too….we shall see
Perfect.
I’ve just taken the Welsh for a walk and we picked up a McDonald’s large white coffee as a treat on the way home. It’s important to treat yourself to one small thing everyday, even if it’s a coffee, or a walk, or joining the Storyhouse film society , which I also did this morning.
Hey ho
Working later, so made Thai Curry soup and picked the first of the spring blooms in the garden, Jews Mallow, camellia, rebus, bluebell and forget me not
Depression is a cunt
I met a friend for breakfast today.
They have been low for a long time and are probably very depressed.
We meet monthly for coffee, more if they are up to it.
Depression is a cunt.
I listened and made them laugh just the once
But when we said our goodbyes
I felt as helpless as ever
But , I hugged my friend close and for the longest of times
And kissed them squarely on the forehead
Which I hoped meant something.
The Book of Love - The Dutch Tenors
The day hasn’t turned out as it had planned to be.
I took myself off to the University library in Rhos to work for the day.
It was uncharacteristically shut, so I bought a coffee and parked on the Promenade to listen to the rain and the waves.
There I promptly fell asleep long enough for a concerned passerby to knock on the window to see if I was alright.
I dropped into the supermarket, the pet store and then Jackson’s Nurseries in Trelawnyd where I bought a coffee plant and some candlesticks
Homemade lasagne, mango salad and strawberries and ice cream ( with chocolate sauce)
New Routine
My five year Dorothy routine is in disarray.
The Welsh like a lie in, and walks are not greeted with an hysteria bordering on a1960s Beatles concert.
So I’m starting the day later in general , in a quieter, less fraught environment.
My blood pressure will benefit, I’m sure.
I have a journal to complete for college.
This time centring upon a childhood memory, resurrected during personal development group. I have a few in mind and discussed possibilities with myself during dog walks this morning.
I am a big self chatterer.
I have picked a rather painful memory when I challenged my mother about the level of her drinking.
Instead of exploring the subject, brought up by a gauche and very young 17 year old, she did what she often did and retreat to bed blaming her unhappiness on me or us ( her children)
Incredibly passive aggressive and exceptionally dysfunctional, her behaviour found its mark and , I found myself ultimately apologising for upsetting her, which in retrospect was a terribly skewed expectation of an adolescent to behave .
And so I’ve tossed the memory around this morning. That’s half the battle all told. Memories can warp themselves into passable chunks. I just need to map out the essay,
In half an hour I need to take Trendy Carol’s Hubby for a hospital appointment, he is a regular attender and I’m happy to take him. I will refer to him in the future as Ieuan which the Welsh version of John.
Today I found the ceramic heart on the kitchen wall, a gift from the velvet voiced Linda and a few days before the pencil drawing of Dorothy was left on Bluebell’s passenger seat by Margaret from Choir,
Kindnesses go far….
Silvia Sanz Torre
If Silvia Sanz Torre was conducting my choir, I’d do out if my way to please her. That’s the sign of a charismatic choir master.
In my mind charisma and passion go side by side, you see it in the great divas such as Diana Damrau, who Command the stage with a certain something, that if you could bottle it, it would send a rocket far into space. I saw her once in New York at The Met singing The Queen of the night aria and you could literally feel the audience stiffen in glee as she started her chorus.
Peter Ustinov had oodles of charisma in spades too but his passion used to lie with words and with stories as many actors do
Audrey Hepburn had a still charisma. The late Queen a strength behind the eyes.
And I’m remembering The Red Faced Welsh Farmer here, who looked and sounded like an old pirate
And whose charisma was funnelled under a beanie had and a battered red landrover.
Without a bulldog to wake me up, I slept in after night shift. The Welsh patiently wait their turn to go out and we’ve just returned from an afternoon walk and venture to the supermarket for treats.
It’s wet and cold and I’ve heated up chowder and garlic bread which I’m going to eat with a serving spoon.
I’ve made garlic bread for me and a small mozzarella bun for the Welsh, when cool they will take their buns away to enjoy in a dark corner.
Dogs adore cheese.
Feels Like Home
The little bow of acknowledgment lifted this humorous encounter into something so much more ……special I always think.
This moments are rare
I was moaning about something only yesterday.
Something about a friend letting me down.
I what’s chunnering away to myself, whipping things up when there was no need to.
I don’t deal with rejection well, I never have.
Friends don’t let me down, they just say no occasionally
And Dorothy listened to that,
She always did.
Yesterday I went banging along and the Welsh remained firmly dozing.
Sure an ear would twitch
And a half eye would open,
But content they were not the centre of my moan,
They rested the rest of the just,
And slept.
Dorothy however would take everything on board.
I miss those big eyes, unblinking and watching carefully as I moaned and kvetched and shared that life isn’t always a bed of roses.
Like Mr Kim’s nod, she had the ability to acknowledge things with a long serious look
Even though she had no idea of what was being said.
She was my confidante, my conscience….my priest
And she would never look away……….
Mixed Bag
It’s sunny this morning. Sunny enough to warm the south facing stone wall of the cottage by 9.30 am.
I’ve drank coffee and was mindful by eating some hot cross buns covered with clumps of butter for breakfast
Last night’s The Kite Runner was an interesting adaptation of the multi awarded book. It lacked a bit of drama for me given the epic nature of some of the story but the lead (Stuart Vincent) was impressive enough.
I’m working the weekend on nights
The aubretia is flowering
Good Friday
I’m not a lover of Easter.
It feels what it is, a now defunct holiday with no purpose or reason.
The supermarket was packed today, which told me enough
Just an excuse to waste money.
Having said that, I bought some chocolate eggs for the work staff . I am on nights tomorrow and Sunday, and felt I wanted to treat those on duty. It’s not that long ago, that I bought eggs to hide in the garden for my mother -in-law to find. It is her birthday over Easter and it was always a silly tradition I used to stage for her.
I doubt she would remember it now.
I bought flowers for the cottage and pigs ears for the Welsh, and some noodle ready meals to use over the weekend, and I’ve washed clothes and underwear which are festooned over the bushes and back kitchen walls to dry. I’ve messaged my friend Ben in Korea and spoke to Nu.
Easter is usually a quiet weekend.
I’ve been invited to Gwawr’s 40th at the hall and will pop there later after I go to the theatre.
Monster
A rainy day and a cold one.
I walked the dogs and left them cuddled up asleep and went to the Chester Storyhouse. I was too early so had pad Thai in the Market and ate it with chopsticks on one of the communal tables in the vast dining room
Monster is a carefully crafted study of the pain of feeling what you feel when you are a pre teen, and everything is not quite what you think it is. Seen in a long series of flashbacks taken from differing points of view from a succession of characters we watch single mother (Sakura Ando) trying to understand why her young son Minato ( Soya Kurosawa) is acting so strangely. She hears through the grapevine that his outwardly diffident teacher Mr Hori ( Eita Nagayami) is bullying him and as she battles with the grief stricken and obsequious headmistress ( Yuko Tanaka) it is suggested that Minato is in fact bullying another boy, the gentle and slightly effeminate Eri ( Hinata Hiiragi)
Like the skin on an onion, director Hirokazu Kor-eda, slowly peels away the reality of the story with some care and with a Japanese eye, examines homophobia, physical and sexual abuse, and maintaining honour and saving face within the story of two boys growing up.
Yuko Tanaka
It’s an incredibly fascinating and rather sad story all told , acted beautifully by all involved. Ando and Nagayami are especially strong as the lioness mother and bemused teacher and veteran actress Yuko Tanaka is compelling in her emotionless turn as the damaged headmistress.
Kor-eda finally brings all the threads together by the final reel , but he gives the audience two endings, one hopeful, one tragic .
I’d like to think everyone picked the hopeful one
I’m off to Chester again tomorrow , but this time to the theatre to see The Kite Runner. How lucky am I Japan one day Kabul the next .
'What Me Mam Taught Me'
Sometimes your evening doesn’t quite work out the way you expect it would .
John Copper Clarke
I went to see the poet and raconteur John Copper Clarke last night.
And I kind of fell in love with fellow poet Mike Garry who was supporting him.
They sound the same.
A thick, proud Mancunian accent.
Nasal and rhythmical, his poems of childhood and a rough working class life in a Northern City had an obvious energy and life to them, and he lived each one with the power of an evangelist preacher.
I was captivated from start to finish, so much so that I was slightly disappointed when Cooper Clarke came on stage, late and ever so slightly drunk.
At seventy five John Cooper Clarke is still the old king of his craft, and he performed a good selection of his poems with a wry wit which is both appealing and affectionate. But he is much more an all rounder now, more a stand up comic who hurtles one liners out like machine gun bullets rather than just a performing poet.
I felt as though Mike Garry was his younger version
Having said that, I remember one short poem which had the audience screaming in laughter when Cooper Clarke lugubriously threw away his short poem called Necrophilia
“ Are you fed up with foreplay and all that palaver?
‘Ave a cadaver”
Cooper Clarke and Mike Garry
A Little Piece Of Home
In the wee small hours this is broadcast on BBC Radio 4 fM
I tune in perhaps three or four times a year
And there it is
Like poetry, or a prayer
More about that tomorrow….it’s been a poetry led evening and I’m feeling suddenly melancholy
Sweet dreams ( thank you Philip xx)
Bluebell
When you’re single you have no back up!
Bluebell was taxed last year but the MOT just passed me by and so I was lucky my nephew could fit her into his garage today at very short notice.
By the end of the day , she was serviced and MOTeed and was sitting proudly in the drive at the end of the garden , a constant friend in my 61st year.
On reflection I have underestimated just how much she has been a good mate to me these past five years, and only very occasionally has she let me down.
This week is a case in point, not only do I have to nights to commute to, I’ve got John Cooper Clarke to go and see at venue Cymru and The Kite Runner is on stage at the Storyhouse. In Chester on Friday .
No car
No social life.
No work
No life
Anyhow it’s Interior Design Masters tonight on tv.
Which is camp as Christmas
I’ve made macaroni cheese for tea, with onlyRoger in tow, Mary has been loaned out to Trendy Carol’s Hubby again today.
Two night Shift Stories
Nurses get paid more for night shifts. They bloody well deserve it too
It’s a completely unnatural time to be working, which encroaches not only on the day you work but the day before and the day after.
It’s like being effectively jet lagged once a week and research has proved the practice to be dangerous to physical and psychological well being .
Working nights can also be dangerous. You are on minimal staffing, have minimal resources , and in 40 years I have been involved in several violent situations , all centred on a night shift where help often didn’t come.
Night time, is also the time people are at their lowest ebb…..that’s why more people pass away in the wee small hours than anytime else.
My worst night shift ever was back in my psychiatric days
“ After I qualified as a staff nurse in mental health' I got a job in a prestigious psychiatric hospital in North Yorkshire. The hospital had only seven wards which were all situated within a beautiful Regency style building in it's own grounds. The wards were carpeted and sympathetically decorated in a period style and their day rooms filled with comfortable sofas and occasional furniture.It was a pleasant place in which to work.
I was placed on the mother and baby unit , where seriously ill post partum women and their offspring were admitted for treatment, but most of the other wards catered for acutely mentally ill patients, patients with cognitive impairments and people suffering severe epilepsy..
Staffing generally was very good , but when there was an emergency situation on a ward then an alarm bell would sound and each ward would send a " runner" to help with whatever problem was afoot. No wards were ever locked.
I was telling some of the junior staff this story last night whilst on a break, as a sort of lesson of how Intensive Care is one of the few places in nursing that is probably safest from assault and injury ....things in the early 1980s could be very different!
I remember one night at the hospital when at around 4am the alarm bell sounded. I was one of the five nurses who responded to the call,
The emergency was on the epilepsy assessment ward , a ward staffed by both general and mental health nurses. On duty were three nurses. A heavily pregnant girl, a young staff nurse just out of training and an experienced male staff nurse. All three had been sitting in what was essentially a glass box which overlooked the dormitory of patients on two sides.
It’s a completely unnatural time to be working, which encroaches not only on the day you work but the day before and the day after.
It’s like being effectively jet lagged once a week and research has proved the practice to be dangerous to physical and psychological well being .
Working nights can also be dangerous. You are on minimal staffing, have minimal resources , and in 40 years I have been involved in several violent situations , all centred on a night shift where help often didn’t come.
Night time, is also the time people are at their lowest ebb…..that’s why more people pass away in the wee small hours than anytime else.
My worst night shift ever was back in my psychiatric days
“ After I qualified as a staff nurse in mental health' I got a job in a prestigious psychiatric hospital in North Yorkshire. The hospital had only seven wards which were all situated within a beautiful Regency style building in it's own grounds. The wards were carpeted and sympathetically decorated in a period style and their day rooms filled with comfortable sofas and occasional furniture.It was a pleasant place in which to work.
I was placed on the mother and baby unit , where seriously ill post partum women and their offspring were admitted for treatment, but most of the other wards catered for acutely mentally ill patients, patients with cognitive impairments and people suffering severe epilepsy..
Staffing generally was very good , but when there was an emergency situation on a ward then an alarm bell would sound and each ward would send a " runner" to help with whatever problem was afoot. No wards were ever locked.
I was telling some of the junior staff this story last night whilst on a break, as a sort of lesson of how Intensive Care is one of the few places in nursing that is probably safest from assault and injury ....things in the early 1980s could be very different!
I remember one night at the hospital when at around 4am the alarm bell sounded. I was one of the five nurses who responded to the call,
The emergency was on the epilepsy assessment ward , a ward staffed by both general and mental health nurses. On duty were three nurses. A heavily pregnant girl, a young staff nurse just out of training and an experienced male staff nurse. All three had been sitting in what was essentially a glass box which overlooked the dormitory of patients on two sides.
The office was essentially an observation room.
Out of nowhere, a powerfully built male patient had suddenly become agitated and very confused and had hurled himself at the windows of the nurses station. He shattered the glass with his body, and like an animal he went for the nurses inside. The male nurse hit the emergency buzzer then bolted out of the office to get help, but as he ran, the office door bounced shut , locking the two women inside. The pregnant nurse, with great presence of mind clambered over a desk and jumped through a window into the grounds to safety but unfortunately the patient caught hold of the young female staff nurse before she could flee.
By the time we arrived on the scene a couple of minutes later, the patient had fractured her jaw and had broken her arm as well as biting her badly on the side of the face.
This was the only time , I have been truly frightened at work Over the years I have been personally abused many times by patients and relatives alike. I have been screamed at, shouted at, spat at and in one case threatened with a broken teapot! but this situation with a brain damaged patient and a young helpless staffnuse still lingers long in the mind.
A scary story to share with a group of nurses in the wee small hours of the morning eh?”
Out of nowhere, a powerfully built male patient had suddenly become agitated and very confused and had hurled himself at the windows of the nurses station. He shattered the glass with his body, and like an animal he went for the nurses inside. The male nurse hit the emergency buzzer then bolted out of the office to get help, but as he ran, the office door bounced shut , locking the two women inside. The pregnant nurse, with great presence of mind clambered over a desk and jumped through a window into the grounds to safety but unfortunately the patient caught hold of the young female staff nurse before she could flee.
By the time we arrived on the scene a couple of minutes later, the patient had fractured her jaw and had broken her arm as well as biting her badly on the side of the face.
This was the only time , I have been truly frightened at work Over the years I have been personally abused many times by patients and relatives alike. I have been screamed at, shouted at, spat at and in one case threatened with a broken teapot! but this situation with a brain damaged patient and a young helpless staffnuse still lingers long in the mind.
A scary story to share with a group of nurses in the wee small hours of the morning eh?”
But as usual things need a balance and this short take should fit the bill
“ Christmas Night 1986
It was very cold and snowy and I remember.
I wasn’t very happy.
I had just started work in the November.
A new staff nurse role, in a new city of York
I’d barely been there a month and still lived at the nurses’ home at Clifton Hospital a couple of miles out of the city.
I knew no one properly and I was homesick
And already I had been put onto night duty.
The ward was quiet.
A psychiatric admission ward with twelve or so general admission patients and an attached mother and baby unit with a half complement of two mums and two newborns.
We had three staff of duty. Staff nurses clive and I covered the main ward and Sue who was a motherly enrolled nurse took charge of the nursery.
Around midnight Sue and I were in the darkened office, each of us feeding a baby.
I couldn’t see her face properly just a glint of her glasses from the lights from the snowy garden.
She was asking me about me, and I had been yacking on in the dark for an age.
I had no idea what I was doing but my baby was large and content and sleepy so from the get go..so I was lucky.
“ Are you gay John? “ she seemed to ask me out of nowhere and she nodded when I defensively replied no, just a little too quickly .
“it’s ok if you were you know? ” She said slowly in her broad flat Yorkshire accent “I’ve always loved gay men”
And in the comfortable silence that followed, something quietly and inexplicably shifted in me
As we fed babies in the dark on Christmas Day”
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