Number of days since lockdown: 57

Number of times I have relived Friday night in the summerhouse with Brian: far too many

Number of times he has been in touch since then: zero

Number of times I have very nearly WhatsApped him: I am ashamed to tell you

It’s all my own fault, isn’t it?

If I hadn’t

• a) allowed my passion to get the better of me, and played a bit more hard-to-get or
• b) written about Jane bloody Eyre yesterday,

I might now be in a relationship with Brian, rather than having him disappear out of my life the day after we went completely over the top in breaking the social distancing rules.

And in any case, I have other things to worry about. Because that Zoom call with Nurse Constance was a bit different from our previous chats. Constance says that the staff at the hospice think that Mum is very depressed. She says that she has turned her face to the wall, which is nurse-speak for giving up on life. It is a syndrome they are seeing a lot at the moment in care homes and hospices, especially amongst the elderly. Here is an article in the Guardian that Constance recommended.

I found myself getting very upset. Constance was lovely. We talked about Mum, and how she is a very private person and doesn’t ever talk about her feelings, but that how family is everything to her, and not being able to see any of us is causing her great pain. Constance asked about her background, and I explained that we know very little about her life while she was growing up, just that it wasn’t a happy time. In fact we know almost nothing prior to her meeting Dad at a Young Conservative dance in 1950, when she wore a yellow dress and he couldn’t take his eyes off her because she was so lovely. And how he has been her rock, especially when Ruth died and she lost touch with reality for a while. And then again more recently.

And we agreed that she must be missing Dad very much, but that we had no way of knowing when or even if he would be ready to go home. And even then, how he was going to be and how much care he would need. It all must feel very uncertain, especially as we can’t be with her.

And after a bit more discussion, Constance suggested and I found myself agreeing that the best thing would be to work towards her coming to stay with me for the time being, rather than remaining at the hospice until she was ready to go home. In Constance’s world, this is what daughters do.

So now I will be opening up my house as a very small care home for one sad lady resident. Lydia is delighted and the children think it is great.

But I can’t help feeling that my life is slipping through my fingers. And anyway, without Brian, what else do I have to do?

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