Number of days since lockdown: 71

Number of days since Dad died: 5

Number of days since I ruined my own life: 3

I’ve been having really awful dreams. The sort in which you do something absolutely terrible like accidentally killing someone and then you try and cover it up. But then you get found out. Or you do something you shouldn’t with someone completely inappropriate and the person you really love finds out and your life is ruined.

Then you wake up. And for one or two seconds you feel a massive sense of relief because the horrid dream isn’t true.

But this is real life, or what passes for it in my blog. So after the joy of realising that the dream was just a dream, I remember that Dad has died. My dear, dependable, kind, funny, anxious old Dad. It is like being smashed in the face. I cannot bear to think of him dying all alone in that hospital or of life without him. He may have been 89. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t precious and adorable or that I am not going to miss him every day for the rest of my life.

And then I remember that poor Mum is really struggling and I simply don’t know how to help her. Everything I do or say is wrong. I am useless and the worst sort of daughter possible.

And just to cap it all off, in an instant I also remember that I have indeed done something inappropriate. With my ex-husband, just to make it even more sleazy and embarrassing. And that when good, honourable, kind, loyal Brian finds out, everything will be ruined.

I hate myself more than it is possible to put into words. I am a stupid, selfish, weak-willed useless fat ugly cow.

Brian has been sending me lovely messages, just to say he has been thinking of us. And there have been several bunches of his allotment flowers, including some gorgeous pale pink roses. I put some in the hall and the sitting room, and the rest in a jam jar on the kitchen table. I have thrown that other bouquet into the garden recycling bin. I couldn’t look at it. It made me feel sick.

I try to reply to Brian but I just don’t know what to say. So I put things like Thank you, with a heart emoji, or Bearing up with a sad face emoji but only the one with one tear because even though I can’t stop crying, I do not deserve his sympathy. Not in these circumstances.

I also got a message this morning from You-Know-Who. It said this:

Dear Sades, I think I might have been a bit out of order on Sat night, probs the wine, you know what I’m like. I really can’t remember much. The good news is that I’m no longer an ageing sofa-surfer, Karina has taken me back under her wing. She is a marvellous girl and I couldn’t be happier. I’m sorry things are tough for you right now. Look after yourself, please.

All my love, R x

And although it should be reassuring that either he really can’t remember much about our fumbling, or that even if he is pretending he can’t remember, he is unlikely to spill the beans because of Karina, somehow it just makes me feel even worse.

To take my mind off the awfulness, once I’ve got Mum settled in the garden with a book she doesn’t like and a cup of coffee she says she doesn’t want, I turn my attention to unloading the dishwasher and washing the kitchen floor, which is filthy. The mop head is long past its best, so I decide to make a last minute adjustment to the Sainsbury’s online order that is due to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. And just as I think I have successfully chosen a new mop head for £3.50, I accidentally click the wrong button and realise I have totally deleted the order and there are no slots available now until Sunday. And I find myself putting my head in my hands and weeping with frustration.

When I look up, Mum is sitting next to me. She puts her hand on my arm and says:

Sadie, I am a terrible mother, I am so sorry.

And I say, No please Mum, it is me who should be sorry. I should be comforting you.

And she says, Shall we stop being sorry and just be sad together?

And I say OK.

And we put our arms round one another. And for the first time I can ever remember, Mum and I face up to what has happened and cry together.

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