Greetings of the Season

Merry Christmas to you all.

Plenty to say

Just no time in which to say it. Or, more to the point, to compose it into legible, well structured and, hopefully, interesting sentences.

In about an hour we're off to spend Christmas with my parents and we haven't finished packing yet so news of how last Friday went, plus our plans for 2009 will have to wait for now.

And then they came

So far my composure has held up reasonably well but last night saw the first small cracks.

L came into the room and said that she's got to pick up the photos of Cirrus we've ordered from the nursery when he's ready to go back this week. And that she doesn't know what to do with the fourth copy.

It took me a couple of seconds to remember why we might now only need three and then the tears came. A couple at least.

I might take a pack of tissues or two to the funeral on Friday.

A pox on all of you...

...or on all of Cirrus, at any rate.

I'm at home today, having booked it off weeks ago because it's L's work's Christmas lunch and the second performance of the Christmas Play at Cirrus' nursery (the first having been yesterday, which L was going to see).

The trouble is, Cirrus, like a significant proportion of the rest of the cast, has come down with the dreaded pox, so I won't be seeing him dressed up as a shepherd or hearing him sing the songs he's been absent-mindedly practicing for the last couple of months.

What is it about chicken pox that makes people so worried? I mean, at the first sign of it the nursery packs an infected child off home to try and stop it spreading further. But is that such a bad thing? I mean, sure, it's not a terribly nice illness, with the open blisters all over you, but it's not as if it it lays kids up in bed or makes them feel more than a little off-colour. And it can be much more dangerous, for a man at least, to get it later in life as it can cause fertility problems. So you'd think that you'd want kids to have it when they're young. Or am I missing something?

Anyway, Cirrus has spots all over him (including one on the edge of one of his eyelids) so I've got to stay at home with him (and Nimbus, of course) watching DVDs all day. It's a hard life.

A Farewell

It won't be long now. That's the message that makes work seem suddenly unimportant. All I can think of is getting there before it's too late.

It won't be long now. Waiting impatiently at the station, I read to try and distract myself. Finally the train leaves. Half an hour and I'll be there.

It won't be long now. On the bed is a woman who lost her husband almost a quarter of a century ago and kept her illness secret for many years. Her family is gathered around her, waiting, thinking.

It won't be long now. Her breathing is rapid and shallow and we wonder whether she knows we are all there. My mind drifts to memories of trips into London during school holidays. Can the last of those really have been almost half my life time ago?

It won't be long now. Eventually, I say my goodbyes and take my leave. There's no reason to stay right to the end. I'm just glad I was able to be there to see her before she left. Now starts the wait until the phone rings again with that last, fateful message.

It won't be long now. And then the tears that stubbornly refused to come during that long afternoon may begin to flow freely.