Twelfth Night

As a huge traditionalist nothing comes down before today. Plenty of time to think of the last five weeks as I climb back up the loft though. I’ve had well-meaning friends and colleagues telling me I’ve ‘done well to get through it’ but to be honest that seems like a facile claim. Really all it means is that I’ve not joined Gail in the Great Beyond either through fate or because I’m not suicidal (or more likely a coward!).

There are some interesting life things thrown up though. I’ve had experiences like staying at the Chesterfield, good friends insisting I join them on Boxing Day; playing ‘Cards Against Humanity’ with their kids (!) or trying to outsmart a bunch of Uni students on NYE; things that I will remember until I shuffle off. Yet, I can’t recall at all what Gail and I did last Boxing Day in what you’d suppose were happier times. Wandering the West End on foot for hours, without having to worry about parking and if Gail was going to get tired, seemed almost obscene somehow and decent NYE’s – a day I loath – I can count on the fingers of one mutilated hand.

What’s even stranger is I’d give them all up in a flash to go back to how things were. I’d welcome a dull Boxing Day I can’t recall, having a row on NYE (Christmas Eve’s were always magical for us though) or realising we can’t do that particular journey because Gail needed to lie down. I guess this shows ultimately it’s not what you do, it’s who you do it with.

So last night, I dreamt that I was on a month long trip round the country training. Without knowing what about, I knew implicitly that Gail and I had argued and she wasn’t speaking to me (Us? Go a month without talking? We barely went an hour LOL ). I was coming home and I knew we should have at least rung each other and I feared she might not be there when I got in. In this dream though, I realised that I WAS dreaming and if I got in that door I’d see Gail for the first time since July (Fuck me, I’m crying writing this. Who knew?). I so wanted to open that fucking door and see her and have her say “Oh so you’re home again, yer bastard are you?” or something. But I couldn’t / didn’t, instead I immediately woke as I put the key in the door – it felt as if I’d forced myself to wake up – and all I saw was Gus the Cat peering at me. I don’t know if I cried out in my sleep; I might have done, he looked concerned.

So anyway Shakespeare, write a play about THAT, why dont’cha? Nothing really learned, nothing gained but – as everyone keeps telling me – I got through it. So here’s a nice photo of Gail in a dress I bought her that’s now on eBay and we plod onward into 2019. She looks lovely but I can also tell she was in pain. I say I’m in pain but I’m not. Like that anyway. It’s been an emotional Christmas.

Thanks for listening.

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