Number of days since I started this blog: 84

Number of times I’ve cried since the weekend: 8

Number of cigarettes: 9. Very bad.

I just can’t stop thinking of those little girls in that photo I found in Mum’s bedside drawer at the weekend. And how she named us after them but never told us anything about them. I want to talk to her so much but I just don’t know what to say. Anyway, I’ve agreed to wait till Lydia gets here tomorrow.

My mother has always been an enigma, protected by her own peculiar angry spikiness. It wasn’t just that we knew nothing of her childhood. She has always been secretive about so many things, and yet curiously open about others, especially when she was about to go off the rails. She often told us how annoyed she was with Dad about something he had or hadn’t done, and her recent announcement that she was going to leave him was just one of many that the poor man had to endure during their marriage. I think Dad must have represented stability to her. And now I think I know why she needed someone stable.

I find myself feeling desperately sad. I am unable to concentrate, which makes writing a bit difficult. Therefore this will be just a short entry today. You will hopefully get a longer one tomorrow. I’m going to make some fairy cakes for Mum, and do her nails.

And to the two people who have commented on the structure of the diary and given me advice on how to improve it, I would like to say thank you. But I can’t be totally grateful because as you know, Brian helped me set the blogsite up. And I have rather blown things there. So it is going to have to stay the way it is just for now. Sorry about that.

Mind you, I did get a very sweet message from him last night to say that he would be thinking of me this week and that he hoped that Friday goes OK. Maybe he has forgiven me because he thinks that I did what I did while overcome by grief?

And he would be right.

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