Spoiler

Here is the real answer to the 'ultimate' question - What is the meaning of life?

And the answer is...

*Drum roll...*

*Opens golden envelope...*

The ultimate question is daft. A bit like asking 'how much is blue?' or 'when is a chicken?'

So 42 is as good an answer as any.

What is the meaning of my life? My life has no 'meaning'. But it has purpose. And that is a very happy state of affairs.

A breather

In response to the kind messages and calls re the turmoils of 2008, thank you.

Good news. Thebazile is recovering very well. The (work) project I was doing that got delayed while I looked after her has also progressed well. I have the day off...

Wow. A little blue sky...

Good Samaritans

Ever phoned the Samaritans? I never though I would. Last week Thebazile became very ill. The sort of ill that means you don't have the strength or control to get out of bed to use the toilet. After one day of agony she needed to be in hospital but the doctor could not refer her on because they were under strict instructions not to allow Norovirus sufferers into hospital. Four days later she was no better. On the fifth day she began having breathing problems. This time I called an ambulance. The kids clung to me horrified as she was taken away.

It was at that point that I lost it. Supporting an ill partner, two kids and earning a living (there is no time off or sick pay when you are self employed) had meant I'd not slept for five days.

So I rang the Samaritans because I really needed to talk to someone in an emotional way. To let rip about everything from cripplingly expensive insurance claims on faulty plumbing to piles of washing, from helping kids with their homework to Dad's accident and eventual death.

It wasn't as I'd expected though. The guy on the other end of the phone had a Birmingham accent. And he really didn't say much. He made the occasional gentle suggestion (could so-and-so help? Have I got friends or relatives etc etc) but really he just listened.

But d'you know what? It worked.

So wherever, whoever you are, thank you for giving up your Saturday morning to hear other peoples problems. Thanks for allowing me to go through my own problems and develop a little perspective. Thank you for listening.

Somewhere out there is an angel with a Brummy accent - and that makes me feel a whole lot better.

Photographic memories

I did not sleep well last night. Having spent most of yesterday going through Dads photos my mind was a whirl of images, much of which I'd either forgotten or never seen. Dad as a baby. Family group photos. My brother and I as chubby children. Art student days. Early photos of my companion and lover, Htebazile.

And photos of Mother.

Some of it wonderful, much of it deeply disturbing. I feel like I've spent much of my life (successfully) attempting to mature by escaping from who I was at home and here I am now confronting the fact that it is all part of me.

Then there is the uncomfortable sense that I have that I'm invading Dad's personal space by going through his memories without him.

And there is the renewed sense of loss. Dad took hundreds of wildlife photos. We can't keep them. There are images of friends and relatives, many whose names are lost. They have to go.

I'm now off to the recycling centre.

I wonder if there is a lesson in that?

Motivation

I expect that at some point someone will read what I've posted here. If that is the case I'd like to question why I started it in the first place.

1. I like to leave comments on public websites and had to sign up to blogger in order to do this.
   
2. I like to revisit this page to remember past events and emotions. I could do this with a paper diary but blogger is easier to access while I work and has an inbuilt spellcheck.
   
3. I'm beginning to enjoy the slightly mysterious nature of my own blog. Taciturn with a hint of self-pity. A photo that leaves much to the imagination. But even this mystery is a vanity that I'm not entirely comfortable with.

One counter argument (especially to point 2) is that keeping a public diary is just like putting on a mask. Whoever sees your blog only sees what you wish to present. I've seen lots of examples of very bad blogs which are no more than a public display. But I've seen a few that impress me with their honesty. If I am to blog, I should try to share the courage and honesty of good writers, even if I can't be quite as witty, technically efficient or biographically interesting.

And I don't think a blog needs to be much more than an occasional comment, observation or report. I don't like the idea of saying much about myself in public but its only fair that anyone I 'speak' to on the Internet should be able to learn a little more about me and be able to respond. So If I continue to appear taciturn, you'll know why.

And then it happened...

Of course it was not entirely unexpected, after all Dad was 85. It just seems odd that my last post here was so relevant to what we have found ourselves dealing with for the past three weeks.

I didn't want him to go.

Thinking ahead

Talked to Dad about his funeral plans.

Rechargable batteries and a nice shiney hand cultivator

Sometimes, PoundStretcher comes up trumps.

WAGD

A 50% loss of life in the UK alone by 2200.

WAGD

A 50% loss of life in the UK alone by 2200.