I HATE THE EARTH

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In retrospect, the loss of my father last year feels like Training Death. I apologise if that sounds flippant, but Dad's passing was almost textbook. He got older and greyer, he couldn't walk as well as he did, and the cough that would go on to kill...

I'm a little numb to be writing this; I'm still trying to summon up the will to finish writing what's become the world's longest summer holiday blog-post, when this has happened:
At eight o'clock last night, my mother was taken to Intensive Care where a tube was put down her throat, and lines were inserted into her neck to keep her alive. She's now unconscious, having been fairly alert in hospital for the last two weeks. In fact...

I couldn't sleep a wink. There was a sign above the window overlooking a dodgy rear carpark that I managed to translate into 'Open this, and all bets are off', so I lay there in the darkness broiling in my own juices. The only upside to the entire experience...