What a busy 24 hours I've had. Yesterday I rushed down to Brighton for my friend's husband's funeral and arrived by train to discover hoards of policeman and sniffer dogs wandering around the concourse. I pondered whether they were diet police and knew I had two chocolate bars about my person, but then the taxi driver on the way to the church told me that Gordon was giving his speech within the hour and it was extra security laid on for his arrival. The funeral was the nicest I have ever been to (if you can say such a thing). There were at least a hundred and fifty people there, some having travelled for the day from as far afield as Paris and Geneva. There was a traditional service bit, a break while the immediate family departed for the crematorium for the committal) then a two-hour celebration of his life with speeches from those involved in all aspects of his life. It was very moving. It was good to see my two best friends, one being the widow, though sadly we did not have much time for a chat.
This morning I was back at the hospital, where I seem to be spending most of my time this week, to meet the social worker who sold me down the river last year. She has been brought in to discuss Greg's latest condition and what help/back-up Social Services can provide. I have told her I cannot cope any more, am at the end of my tether and really need either back-up from support workers at home, if I decide to stay and care for him, or a cast of a thousand to care for him if I decide to leave. She is looking into this for me. Don't hold your breath. Meanwhile Greg is demanding to be sent home NOW, even though he can barely walk across the room and is shaking like a jelly from withdrawal. At least he is on medication to get him off the alcohol (again), though he asked me to smuggle some in for him yesterday. My answer was unprintable.