It's the day after the day before. I've been in bed for over 24hrs now, wrapped up like a disease. My three piss bottles are all full and need emptying but I don't have the energy to rise.
In a strange way I wish mother was here, that she'd bustle in, tear the curtains open and flood the room with daylight. That she'd pull a face of disgust as she gathered together my pee bottles and emptied them down the toilet. That she'd make me a tea, pull up a chair and talk/listen to me... about anything, maybe even about John. But mother is far away, 25 years in the past, that's the last time she soothed me. I was six and had fallen off the garage roof, hit my head and grazed my knee. As I watched Grace Kelly scale a building and climb in a window, mother bathed my head and sent me off into a series of little dreams. Father was there too, smoking and with a hand rested on my scrawny legs. As a child, I think that was the closest I ever got to feeling loved, even liked. God, what I would do for that now... for someone to pick me up and care. I think I need to call The Flaming Chef.