Today is the anniversary of my Dad’s funeral, and it is also the anniversary of Mum and Dad’s wedding. I can still picture, as if I were trapped in the chapel still four years later, their wedding photo propped on the end of the coffin, and the blue and white delphinium sheaf behind it.
All I have done is rage at the world today. Raged at the traffic, at the inadequate menu descriptions and cafes that refuse to serve lunch after two, at the iniquitous parking system, at the intractability of supposedly helpful online systems, at being expected to work for free and at the casualization of labour, at the emotional time bombs that seem to keep going off when I least expect them, at the unending heat of summer and the dessication of my garden and at my own utter helplessness to change anything, anything at fucking all.
I’m tired of everything. And I am especially tired of pretending that everything is all right and that everything is going to be fine.
It’s not. I’m going to die, probably sooner rather than later now that I have diabetes. The question that’s bugging me is this. It’s not is there life after death. It’s whether there is a life before death.