Number of days since I started this blog: 92

Number of times I’ve decided to choose Brian as my social bubble partner: 26

Number of times I’ve realised I have a responsibility to be in a bubble with Toby, Marnie and most of all Kezia: 27

Number of times I’ve thought about Mum and how her courage to keep on going despite everything makes her braver than I could ever have imagined: infinite

Number of hours I have slept: 2?

I don’t mind admitting it. I am a mess. I can’t stop crying. I wish Lydia hadn’t taken Mum to stay with her because now I have nothing to take my mind off how sad I feel.

I miss Mum and Lydia. It is very quiet here without them.

But I miss Dad more than I have words to describe. It feels that so much has happened since he died that we haven’t paid proper attention to losing him. And that makes me feel bad as well as sad.

And I want to talk to him. I want to ask him to tell me about meeting Mum back in 1955. I want to hear it from his side. I want to find out how he managed to see past her hoity-toity stand-offish exterior and discover the brave, unusual and lonely girl underneath. It cannot have been easy. I want to thank him for persevering and for loving her for 65 years, through thick and thin, despite everything that had happened previously having taught her that she didn’t deserve to be happy.

Because otherwise none of us would exist.

And I want to ask his advice. I want to tell him about my Brian dilemma and ask him whether I should follow my heart and start really being with this lovely man, rather than occasionally breaking lockdown rules in the summerhouse and then feeling bad about it afterwards. I want to tell him that at last I have met someone who is forgiving, funny, unusual and wise and who loves me for myself. A bit like Dad really.

Or whether I should instead accept Toby and Marnie’s rather tentative offer to form a social bubble with them, which is probably what I ought to do. That way, at least I will be able to hug my adorable Kezia not to mention helping them out with the babysitting. It’s what I should do. But is it what I really want to do?

Most of all, I want to hold my dear sweet Dad and tell how much I love him and tell him how he has been the rock at the centre of all our lives, especially when Ruth died and Mum lost her bearings once or twice. And when Richard left me and Lydia and I fell out over some shitty stupid thing and when I was worried about the children and when my car broke down on the motorway and I’d forgotten to pay the RAC. And all the other times I’ve needed him and he has been there.

Please don’t worry, I’m just having a wallow. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow. I promise.

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