W is for wallow

Dolores has turned me into a hippopotamus.

I have spent the last week or so wallowing and floundering. A verbal tongue twister.

Wallowing in the bath, in thought and probably the most loathsome of all - self pity. A birthday always sharpens the focus on past and present, more so with each passing year.

As my birthday approached I couldn't help but feel reflective. Dolores' birthday commiserations were only 5 weeks previously. The urge to write was countered by the knowledge that the words trickling from my fingers would be nauseating melancholy. The fact reaffirmed by revisiting my scribblings of last week.

Is this a test? One-two, one-two, can anybody hear me?

So how does the hippopotamus haul herself from the mire of negativity? By looking out not in. All too easy when the quick sand begins to suck at your ankles to struggle hard against it. Be still. Concentrate on what you can do, what you have never done.

A list is what's needed. My eternal comfort. A list of things I would like to do before another year is done.

Dance the Tango.

Take a photograph.

Be at peace with Dolores.

Katy

(What do you Want?)

V is for vulture

An adolescent boy lies badly wounded. There's a long deep gash on the back of his leg; I can see the torn flesh. He's been running and running from his pursuers, but he knows they're getting closer and he's exhausted. He lies panting from the effort on the hard ground, he can't run anymore but he has one last task. He begins to speak, somehow he's communicating with the forces for good, leaving an important message before he's found. As he struggles to speak he's watched from above by a vulture on its perch; sensing the boys weakness and biding its time.

Not a particularly cheerful start to the day after a rotten night. Where on earth does your brain conjure this stuff up from?

Dolores has been a bitch the last couple of days. Tweaking those nauseating nerve strings and depriving me of sleep. Clutching a hot water bottle I have been rotating between sofa, bath and bed. The ideal life some might say. As ever, at times like these it's the little things that are the most valuable. An unexpected handwritten note in the post to say hello 'just because'. And a text from BF to say that her sambuka induced bruising is colouring up nicely.

"You're cheap therapy" I tell her "Yet priceless".

Katy

(What do you Value?)

U is for unlikely

I journeyed to see BF on Thursday and we ventured out to the local market town for supper and a drink (or several as it turned out).

My alcohol tolerance is very low since Dolores has been keeping me company, but BF hadn't been out of the house since giving birth so I assumed we would be on a par. Having eaten an unremarkable meal at our first stop, we decide to go to a pub around the corner for that most fatal of drinks; 'one last one'. As with all best laid plans etc and we make an unlikely group of friends who are clearly delighted to have some new faces for drinking company on a Thursday night. The most vociferous of our NBF's (New Best Friends) is D, in his mid fifties, drunk as a lord and propping up the bar whilst clutching the lead of his small dog. D mysteriously alludes to time spent working abroad and having been wronged by 'the Establishment', but will say no more. We are joined later by D's female friend S. Pale with blond hair verging on the ginger she arrives wearing dark jeans, heavy boots and a sweater; which she peels off to reveal a red velvet basque with black velvet detailing. A Shameless caricature. She talks in a fast Scottish accent, her large pale breasts jostling with one another in a bid for escape.

Come the end of the night the barman is unable to secure us a taxi by phone and we are advised to walk to the taxi rank at the top of the road. Sensing our danger is minimal (green wellies not hoodies prevail in these parts), I take BF by the scruff of the neck and make our exit. S has made me hand over my mobile number so that she knows we have got home safely. She calls my phone whilst I'm present to make sure it's correct so there's no getting away with a phony number.

I'm woken after what feels like 5 minutes of sleep by eldest child jumping onto my bed. I'm sleeping on the sofa bed downstairs which is also the location of the television and thus the morning Teletubbies fix (or whatever it is that 6 year olds watch before school). I can hear her whispering to her sister 'Ask Aunty K if it's ok to switch the television on'. I rise wearily and make a deal - she can watch the television if I can go and sleep in her bed.

I'm joined shortly afterward by the 2 year old who alternately tells me about spiders and ladybirds and gives me cuddles. BF staggers in an hour later. "So, fill in the blanks for me" she says and groans intermittently as I give a brief synopsis. I realise I haven't checked my mobile for a text from S and pick up my phone to check.

1 message.

"Let's meet up tomorrow and do charity shops and roller blading". Shameless indeed.

Katy

(Neat or Untidy?)

T is for Transylvanian

I think I am turning into a vampire. I do not seem to need to sleep. Awake for most of the duration I am averaging a book per night to keep myself entertained. Granted, vampires probably have more of an interesting time than curling up with the latest offering from Richard and Judy's book club.

In the past three nights I have completed 'On Chesil Beach', Ian McEwan (characteristically well written though not his best); 'Girl with a pearl earring', Tracey Chevalier (thoughtful historical novel); and 'This book will save your life', A.M.Homes (quite the opposite, it sapped my will to live).

As I lay awake last night I heard a plane flying above me and pictured the pilot looking down on me from the dark sky. I decide that I need to look down on my life from further away, a ruthless lost boy to clear away the clutter. If only I could stake Dolores through the heart to stop her coming with me, affecting my every decision.

Katy

(Tea or coffee?)

S is for STOP

AAargghh make it stop! I have become a Photoshop junkie. I am still in the process of editing the photographs I took in Italy, desperate to get them printed out so that I can look back with fond memories.

I flew home on 25th February and still the pictures are not done. Every day I sit down and start to edit. I'm perfectly sure I am now making changes which are invisible to the naked eye, but still I persist in pursuit of the best possible aspect. My world has become dominated by curves, gradient maps and sharpening. Pretty soon I'll need to be taken away and de-programmed. An amateur photographer's equivalent to The Priory. Still, it's cheaper than smack.

Katy

(Stick or twist?)

R is for restless

I need to choose a direction to combat my restlessness. According to the Rejuvenation Special in last week's Sunday Times it's only by deciding what my priorities are that I can discover a sense of purpose. So far so feng shui but the trouble is my priorities are not necessarily aligned or compatible with Dolores.

I have a touch of the Mean Reds and I need to find my Tiffany's. Does H Samuel count? I think not. I believe a trip northwards called for, if she'll allow it. I need somewhere to think and plan away from the clutter of everyday being. I love the sea, it always has a calming influence despite the wild ruggedness of the Northumbrian coastline.

And if that doesn't work I'll get rat arsed.

Katy

(Where do you go when you have the mean Reds?)

Q is for queer

I'm in a flat which is flooding. It's pitch black and the water has risen to my neck. I'm scared and disoriented - I have completely lost my bearings and I have no idea how to get out. Amazingly I have a mobile phone and I'm able to call for help. I'm rescued, although I have no memory of how, just a recollection of being soaked and muddy but safe. The dream leaves it's queer imprint on me for the rest of the morning.

I feel constantly restless and agitated at the moment. My neck aches with tension. I feel that my life is ebbing away and I'm doing nothing about it. The frustration makes me want to explode. This was not helped by reading Ian McEwan's latest novel last night; 'On Chesil Beach'. A tale of how a single failure to act can influence a whole lifetime. The majority of the book is devoted to describing one night and the previous years events leading to it. The last six and a half pages fast forward almost carelessly over the next forty years of the central characters life. A painful reminder of how quickly and maliciously time slips through one's fingers.

Another cheering thought is the fact that the only post delivered at the moment is bills, bills, BILLS. I need to raise some finance but how? The state my body is in pole dancing is definitely out. I don't have an attic, never mind cash in it. And who can be bothered to go through the rigmarole of photographing individual items just to earn a few pence on E-Bay? So there's only one solution. I'll have to win the lottery. I've splashed out the extra 50p for a Euromillions ticket - well, you have to spend money to make money.

Katy

(What makes you Quiver?)

P is for Polish

Little brother and I take Grandma to Polish Church. It's a popular gig and every single seat is taken and they are standing at least 20 deep at the back of the church and overflowing down each aisle. I know you are supposed to suffer for the Lord (at least you are if you are a Catholic) but church pews are definitely not good for bad backs. Dolores joins me for the last half hour of the hour service and makes me shift increasingly in my seat. The priest has a few words of English 'for the visitors' at the end of the service and warns his congregation not to eat too much "as a Polish Easter can be full on".

No kidding.

Back at home the table is groaning under the weight of food. Salad, bread, bigos, grilled vegetables, kebabs and other meats and salami together with fruit salad, Polish cakes, biscuits, cheesecake and Easter eggs.

The weather is warm and sunny; unheard of for Easter. We are joined by my uncle, his wife and 2 small kids. My Grandma rushes back and forth filling up plates in a renewed quest to feed all present. Once she has finally taken a seat she sits with a tiny plate of her own. Unsteady on the garden furniture, she spills a little food down her front.

"Oops. Medals", she says.

Katy

(What's your Poison?)

O is for opponent

It’s little brother’s wedding anniversary and he, his wife (H), Grandma and I have an evening meal together. Grandma has made salatka, a Polish salad dish affectionately known as ‘salad trifle’ in our house. It’s made with chopped egg, but Grandma assures me she has not used egg today as she knows little brother doesn’t like it.

We sit down to eat at the candlelit table around 7.30pm. We want to leave sufficient time to have finished in time for the fight on television later on. (Amir Khan followed by Joe Calzaghe).
We dig into our starter. “Are you sure there’s no egg in this?” asks LB. Grandma looks sheepish. “I didn’t think you would notice, there are so many other things in there”. LB lays down his fork in disgust. “I hate egg and I can taste it”. An uncomfortable silence follows.

“SO” I say, “it’s fight night. Later”. LB grins “Thanks for clarifying.” He feels as though it’s one-all when the main course is served. It’s pheasant but we’ve told Grandma it’s chicken as she would think pheasant too exotic. “This chicken is lovely” she says and we all grin into our plates.
“Oops” cries H half way through eating as she drops sauce down her front “dinner medals”.

We retire to the lounge for the boxing and even H, uncertain at first, is shouting at Calzaghe to hit his opponent before long. We're all glued to the set apart from Grandma, who sits with her crossword. She has an amazingly broad vocabulary but her spelling is not always correct (euphoria has been spelled with an 'f'). Not to be deterred, she rewrites clues again and again so that the paper is just a mess of black Biro to the uninitiated eye. Where a word doesn't fit, she declares the paper to have made a mistake and enters her answer regardless. I'm beginning to see who I have inherited my determined genes from.

Katy

(A life less Ordinary?)

N is for nowhere (to be seen)

Little brother and I travel home for Easter today. I feel hideous - I may have snatched a few moments of sleep but I feel as though I have been awake all night. A generous helping of coffee helps to bring me round slightly.

Before setting out I phone my Granny. With the parents away we are in charge of collecting her to spend Easter with us. There’s no answer from her telephone but it’s Good Friday. She’s a devout Catholic and I assume that she is probably in church.

We arrive home at 3pm and I call once more to no avail. There’s either a lengthy stint of God bothering going on or she’s inadvertently knocked the ringer off the phone again. We decide there’s nothing for it but to drive to her house and we get there around 5ish after stocking up on plenty of food and drink. She’s still not answering the phone and there’s no visible movement in the house when I call through a slightly open window. I’m almost certain that she’s fine and just out somewhere. However, given that it’s around five and a half hours since we tried to contact her, I’m thinking that that’s an awful lot of praying or…Inevitably your thoughts turn, no matter how briefly, to the worst case scenario. My Grandma is a very sprightly 82 year old Polish lady who survived the best the Germans could throw at her in a concentration camp during the war. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking for a split second that she could be lying in the house needing attention.

We wander up and down the road, unable to get into the house and feeling a bit stumped. We can hardly call my parents and tell them that we have lost my Granny. Little brother suggests calling the warden. This is sheltered accommodation; or “the compound” as my Grandma affectionately terms it. I buzz for attention only to be told that the warden is on holiday and won’t be back until next week. I am infuriated. Clearly only sheltered accommodation 9-5 on a weekday then.

We do some more wandering up and down the road trying to come up with a plan. Little brother downloads the address of the Polish church and Polish Club to his phone and we decide to start the search at the former. Just as we are about to leave I catch sight of a diminutive figure walking quickly towards us; stooped and hugging the treeline as if on manoeuvre. We wait for her to approach and walk towards her, relieved, smiling and waving.

Grandma: “Do I know you?”

Me: “Er, it’s your Granddaughter.”

Grandma: “Oh. You look different. I’m not coming to you today. I’m not ready. Can you come back tomorrow?”

Brilliant.

We assure her that we don’t mind waiting while she packs. I’m not sure about Grandma’s of other nationalities, but the primary role of a Polish one is to feed you. Before packing can commence, we are made cups of tea and fed oranges, cakes, biscuits and chocolate. The TV is switched on for our entertainment at an ear-splitting volume and little brother and I watch virtually the whole of 102 Dalmatians and the news before she appears.

Standing in the doorway wearing a red fleece and carrying a couple of bags. “Are you ready then?” she asks.

Katy

(Naughty or Nice?)

M is for madness

A word of warning to any mother thinking of entertaining her children with a spot of egg painting whilst they are off school. Unless you have the patience of a saint and the hand of a surgeon - don't. Going home for the Easter holidays, I thought it would be a nice idea. Any activity that keeps me sitting still helps to keep Dolores quiet. However, the stress has driven me completely mad.

Having boiled the eggs in water containing food colouring, I duly set to work with my Barbie glitter icing pens. Trying to balance egg between thumb and forefinger whilst writing in icing is no mean feat. I believe I let out a scream when I dropped my third egg (onto a tea towel) and had to wash the smudged mess off and start again. Although the noise could have been in my head, who knows?Balancing the eggs on their axes on a variety of objects in the fridge posed a new challenge. Believe me, it's the new axis of evil. And getting a triangle of Laughing Cow out of the fridge from behind the drying eggs was a military operation. I now have a collection of eggs sitting on bottle tops, vitamin jars and an empty bubble bath bottle. I have to remember to open the door very very slowly.

I was going to paint an egg for each family member. I think in order to preserve my sanity I will have to purchase some chocolate ones. It's the thought that counts.

Katy

(Movies or theatre?)

L is for lethargic

It seems that the less you do, the less you want to do. Despite the fact that it's a beautiful sunny day I can barely be bothered to lever my backside from the sofa and go out. And this in itself irritates me as I'm not a person who naturally likes doing nothing. Especially as I should make the most of feeling well enough to do something. But something feels like such an effort today.

I take my camera and wander around the Quayside trying to take some vaguely interesting pictures, but my heart's not in it. You can tell. When I look at the pictures later it's obvious that the person behind the lens is devoid of inspiration. I had also forgotten that it's the Easter school holidays and crowds of parents were dragging children that looked as bored as me by the hand, making it less simple to get clear shots.

I wanted to get a coffee but since seeing the trailer for Black Gold I'm having conscience issues as a major drinker. Without sounding too much like a hand knitted yogurt wearing tree hugger, I'm trying to do my bit by checking my beverages are fairly traded. Box duly ticked I found I was having to shout to make myself heard above the clatter of cups and background noise as I am temporarily deaf in one ear. ( I know, at present it would be quicker to describe which bits of me were healthy rather than the growing list of ailments). I was sent away by the nurse yesterday who informed me that she can't see my ear drum and my ear will have to be syringed. But I have to put olive oil in it for a week first. Quite how I'll fit Popeye's girlfriend in there I'm not sure. (Groan). The nurse did look rather perplexed when I asked "Extra virgin?"

Katy

(What are you Lost without?)

K is for kin

April already. I think it's the law that time goes more quickly the older you get. I'll ask for a tardis for my birthday this year so I can revisit my favourite years and fast forward over the crappy bits.

Dolores was being a real cow yesterday. Had me confined to bed and threatening to screech round my head knowing that I had plans for the evening. X's father and father's wife were in town and we had promised to go out for dinner. This in itself was stressful enough as I had been told that both had strong Glaswegian accents and there may be something of a language barrier. I used to work with someone from the same area; he was great fun but he spoke so quickly and his accent was so thick that the only time I could understand him was when he was blind drunk and he slowed down somewhat. However, spiking the drinks of X's father on a first time meeting did not seem like a good idea.

Feeling more than a little egg-shelly I dined on prescription drugs before going out and put on lots of make up so my ghostly appearance didn't have people thinking I was a closet goth. Feeling queasy I was concerned about not having much of an appetite. I needn't have worried. The portions in the restaurant were so tiny I think even Nicole Richie would have had room for desert. Served up on glass plates I think their ploy was to create a reflection and the appearance of size but nobody was fooled.

On the bright side, no interpreter needed for conversation though.

Katy

(Korma or Jalfrezi?)

J is for journey

I meet with D today, a clinical psychologist with the Pain Management Team. I haven't seen her since I holidayed with Dolores and it's good to catch up. Although seeing her is usually an emotional journey, it doesn't feel like therapy, and we end up giggling like school children for an hour and a half. It was a strange concept at first - being given work to do on yourself. A bizarre school report of how, emotionally, one 'could do better'. However, after a while it becomes really interesting learning about you. I found it quite amazing that after all these years (a) I could know so little about certain aspects of my character and (b) how astute someone else could be at spotting them in such a short space of time.

I treat myself to a facial afterward - the fish oil tablets are not making any noticeable difference yet (I suppose I may have to give them longer than 2 days to work)- and I feel cocooned in a bubble of relaxation after 90 minutes of sensitive discussion. The therapist wafts 2 different scents under my nose and asks me to choose which one I find more pleasant. "Definitely the first". Turns out I have chosen 'comfort' rather than 'focused'. Enough said. After she's pasted goo onto my face she gives me a neck massage and I can feel gristly lumps crunching in my neck as her fingers move. I make a mental note to invest in a package of back massages this month or I run the risk of not being able to turn my head by the end of it.

I'm settled onto the sofa in pyjamas watching the England game when Dolores decides she wants to be heard. To be honest the first half was so bad I don't blame her - she was probably trying (she succeeds) to get me to take some tranquillizers to relieve me of the boredom. We want some of what Northern Ireland are having please - fair play to them with a win over Sweden. Something we haven't managed since 1968.

Katy

(Jam or marmalade?)

I is for intolerable

I seem to be stuck in a vicious not sleeping-morbid-tiredness cycle. I'm beginning to think that I was accidentally injected with too much sedative in hospital. Either that or I'm incredibly lazy and I've only just realised. Despite being crushingly tired during the day, as soon as I go to bed to my eyelids peel themselves to the back of my head. Sleeping tablets don't work and I have tried all the usual fluffy remedies of lavender on my pillow (smell gives me a headache) and a warm milky drink before bedtime (I have to get up for a wee). Does anybody have any suggestions for a good nights sleep and boundless daytime energy? Or is that liking asking for the keys to the universe?

I've also invested in some fish oil tablets as my memory seems terrible at present. Whether this is due to the drugs or just plain old age who knows. If they're good enough to feed to Primary School children (the tablets not the drugs that is) then they're good enough for me. We probably have the same attention span.

I've stocked up on the vegetable count in my fridge too - just because I'm eating lots of strawberry ice cream, I'm not convinced it counts as one of my five-a-day.

BF called last night - 4 years ago we were at the Winter Music Conference in Miami. We reminisce about a time when we were tanned, interesting and gorgeous as opposed to pale, unhealthy and social recluses. What happened to us? Oh yes, I got ill and she got pregnant.

Katy

(What Inspires you?)

H is for heartstopping

I speak to BF today who is understandably shaken after crashing her car. 'I'm going to kill my children' flashing through her mind as a blowout left her facing the wrong way on the wrong side of the road. All 3 kids were in the car.

As the car shuddered to a halt in a hedge she anxiously peered into the back to check on the children. "It's just like a fairground ride Mummy" said her eldest. "Can you do that again?"

Katy

(What is your pet Hate?)

G is for garbage

The first 2 days of convalescence whizz by as I sleep for most of them, alternating between bed and sofa. In true invalid style I am building up my strength by eating a nutritious and varied diet - of ice cream. Despite the tiredness, the initial 24 hours are Dolores free. I am so used to her company, even if she is only whispering, that her absence is a little disconcerting. I feel a tiny butterfly of excitement at the thought of a summer without her, but quickly stamp on the thought as I don't want to get ahead of myself. On day 2, I recreate a scene from a retirement home by parking myself in a recliner in the window, complete with rug over knees. Soaking up the sunshine I am enjoying being able to read the Sunday Times undisturbed from cover to cover when she interrupts. I have to quiet her with pills but I still feel positive that the hospital procedure was the right choice.

Little brother calls on day 3 and helps ease my cabin fever by taking me out to lunch at The Baltic. We walk quickly from the car; the wind is funnelling down the Quayside and blowing swirling snow in our faces. A thousand cold knives through my little bones. We warm up with hot cups of coffee and soup. Afterward we take at look at the exhibitions. Much of contemporary art leaves me cold and since returning from Italy I think I have become even more intolerant. It strikes me that it is not altogether unreasonable that if you are going to define yourself as belonging to a certain profession, then you should be able to display certain characteristics associated with it. However, being able to draw seems to be a lost art to many contemporary artists. The previous Baltic exhibition provided examples of some of the exceptions, but today the Elvis drawn in chocolate and a room full of pans on a conveyor belt leave me impatient to leave. I note that the artist also uses cow dung, presumably a metaphor for the quality of his work.

Katy

(Grumpy or happy?)

F is for faint

It's D day. Or rather H day. Hospital. I feel curiously indifferent. I've been here before so my expectations are low.

I start to feel a little edgy as I walk through the disinfected green corridors the colour of pain. A nurse checks me in and attaches my plastic bracelet. Thankfully I am near the top of the list and I only have to wait for half an hour before my name is called. I change into my gown and I'm wheeled to theatre by a tiny but hard as nails Scottish nurse. We chat about Liz Hurley's wedding pictures that I've just been scrutinizing (we agree the dress is too much of a meringue. Money doesn't necessarily buy you good taste she tells me).

I'm wired up to endless machines and Dr M arrives all calmness and smiles. He begins by injecting local anaesthetic to numb my skin. He's already told me that he could puncture my lung, so I'm concentrating on lying VERY still. The procedure doesn't take long - it's uncomfortable and slightly painful but nowhere near as bad as last time. As soon as he's finished I perform my usual trick of trying to faint and I have to wait for my blood pressure to stabilise for 20 minutes. My left arm has gone weirdly limp and translucent - apparently this is good. I'm reassured that I will only look like an extra from Star Trek temporarily. I'm hooked up to a drip and wheeled back onto the ward.

X sits by me and holds my hand, chin resting on the metal rails at the side of my bed. "It's all rock and roll with me" I tell him "You don't get crazy Friday afternoons with just any girl you know". He smiles, puts socks on my cold feet and leaves me to sleep whilst going in search of magazines.

After waiting for the drip to run through for an hour, the obligatory tea and toast and double checking that I'm not going to keel over, I'm discharged.

Back home I try sitting on the sofa but Dolores is wailing like a banshee and I have to retire to bed. I lie with tears streaming down my face, terrified that I have aggravated rather than erased her. I take lots of drugs and drift into a light sleep. I come round in the dark of early evening and distract myself listening to Pete Tong.

I call home to see how my Grandma is - she's been in hospital today too but the news is positive. Her consultant told her she must keep drinking to stay hydrated - "Does that include red wine?" was her first question. That's my girl.

I get up around 9pm but there's no sign of Dolores. Not even a squeak. Nothing. I daren't say anything out loud in case I break the spell.

Katy

(Fact or fiction?)

E is for expire

My mother excels herself today in the number of different methods used to try and contact me. I get a text to say that she has e-mailed and the e-mail asks me to text her when it's convenient for her to phone me. I love my mum to bits, but should Cameron get into Number 10, she could be subject to an eco-tax all of her own for the energy expended by her communications.

J picks me up at 6.30pm and takes me to look at her new house. J makes me look like Waynetta Slob, and since moving in last August the place has been gutted, redecorated and organised to a standard Monica Geller would be proud of.

It's lovely to catch up and she tells me that the girls had a get together whilst I was away. Apparently after a few drinks the lap top had come out and they had a group reading of my blog. At this point J shifts uncomfortably in her chair. "H saw the dress you bought" she tells me. "And, well, she came to the conclusion that you had gone away to kill yourself and that the dress was your death outfit". I explode with laughter and wobble on my chair, clinging onto the table for support. Fantastic - despite the fact that H is so wide of the mark, I love the fact that she knows me well enough to realise I would want a fabulous outfit to off myself in.

Katy

(Half Empty of half full?)

D is for dilemma

Hey diddle diddle
my head's in a muddle
which hospital procedure to choose?
Dolores laughs, wicked and certain
that whatever I decide I'll lose.

Katy

(Roll a Dice or toss a coin?)

C is for cuddle

The kids wake me up at 6.30am. By now I am used to the sound of the junior assassins approaching. The click of the door latch followed by a loud whisper "Are you awake Aunty K?" As with the Borg, resistance is futile. Eldest is already dressed in her school uniform. E still in pyjamas climbs under my duvet and gives me a cuddle. The endless "why's" are silenced by the James and the Giant Peach DVD for half an hour.

I make them breakfast after 7 - milk has to be in very specific bottles ("I want piglet on mine"). E strokes my hair as I bend down to replace an unacceptable bottle choice "You've got pretty hair" and all is instantly forgiven. Sucker.

BF emerges looking worn after a grumbly night with baby and we head out for some fresh air. The amount of kit required to go such a short distance still amazes my untrained eye and it's a full half hour before we manage to leave the house. We take the 3 dogs with us and it seems every available grown up arm has something hanging off it; child, buggy, dog, doll, book. It's a beautiful spring morning and the views are spectacular. For the first time since being back I feel awakened by my surroundings. Whilst away words were constantly crowding my head, ideas vying for position.

BF drops me back at the station later and we chat in the car. She was looking at her wedding photos recently. "You looked so well" she tells me. "I'd forgotten how awful you look, it's happened so gradually". Ah. Love my best friend.

Katy

(What makes you Cry?)

B is for baby

Dolores and I hop on the train to see BF and the new baby.

I sit in the car with E (age 2) and the new arrival. I have a tongue rolling contest and listen to E's stream of consciousness babble as BF whizzes around the supermarket.

Time with BF and family is exactly what I needed - a good dose of normality; albeit somewhat frantic surrounded by 3 children, 3 dogs and a cat. There's pandemonium as I hand out presents in the kitchen. E loves her doll - for about half an hour, when she tells me 'I don't like that dolly anymore'. Refreshingly honest. Eldest child is delighted with her sword and her father immediately makes her kneel in the kitchen and knights her.

Eventually the eldest two are put to bed after reading Fantastic Mister Fox. 'That's a high frequency word' child number one tells me. 'High frequency?' I query in a high voice, 'why high frequency?'

'Not that kind of high frequency' BF laughs 'it just means the word is used a lot'. Oh. Clearly I am not parent material yet.

I have a brief cuddle of baby before supper. BF admits it's strange having a little boy after 2 girls. His range of fire whilst changing a nappy came as a particular surprise.

BF's description of labour sans epidural between main course and desert is terrifying - too much information is not always a good thing. We eat chocolate birthday cake to calm our nerves, by which time Dolores is plucking at some of mine.

I make my excuses and crawl into bed with prince Valium.

Katy

(Brown sauce or ketchup?)

A is for acclimatise

So here we are back at A.

Same old Dolores, different country. We thought about using numbers instead of letters this time. But there are a finite number of letters in the alphabet which makes me feel more positive that Dolores might not always be around. If I used numbers I could count forever.

It has taken me precisely a week to adapt to being back home.. ..and start thinking about how nice it would be to be away again. Everything seems so one dimensional and grey compared to Italy. Although I have missed my flat - it's nice to be back amongst my things rather than living in impersonal rooms.

I have been trying to take it easy since returning, anxious to keep Dolores as quiet as possible. However, despite doing little on Thursday, by evening I am increasingly aware of her starting to whinge. The whingeing turns to crying and I bed down for the duration. Her mood matches the violent stormy weather as she shrieks and howls around the inside of my head and makes me more nauseous than her past few attacks. She makes me constantly sick throughout Friday before allowing me to drift into a fitful sleep. I had arranged to catch up with the girls on Friday night but I have to cancel; frustrated and upset.

Saturday I resolve to have a complete day of rest. As usual my first shower is heaven. I open windows to let fresh air in and make a bed on the sofa with the french doors open. Jack Bauer saves me as well as the rest of the USA as I watch back to back episodes of 24 to hold my attention and stop me from doing.

Although I'm desperate for the outside world today Dolores is kicking me in the back as she always does after a period of enforced lying in bed. I manage a walk to the supermarket before settling down with the Sunday papers.

Katy

(Which Animal would you be?)