What a pretty flower. Okay so the white paint splattered all over makes it a tad different, but hey, a pretty flower all the same.
It is not a pretty flower now and (yet again) I am not proud of myself. I am a rose wrecker, a hateful person who could kick a simple rose bush in a fit of temper/stress/frustration. The poor little rose bush is no more.
It is time really. Time seems to be running away from me and nothing is happening. at least none of the things I had hoped to happen. There is that frightening feeling of everything slipping through my fingers, like sand on a beach. There is the feeling of straw, lots of straw, and a struggling camel underneith who is terrified that the last straw will break its aching back. Am I melodramatic? Yes of course, so why change the habbits of a lifetime.
There are the big things, those nasties you can do nothing about, you just learn to accept. Poor old Mum falls into this sorry catagory. I know I can do nothing to ease her situation or to help, she is in the best place, she is cared for. She is not happy, and in true role reversal style I want to play the Mum and make her happy and I can't. Enough of the big stuff you'd think, but no, oh no. That sneaky evil fairy of fate flutters into view bringing worry and stress for another loved one. When someone has been so damn good, so damn caring in looking after Mum for all those months until she moved into the care home. When they have done everything for someone else, it is just not bloody fair that now they should be pulled down by illness, drained of strength and made to suffer the indignity of horribly intrusive tests. Colin has better manners than me. He is taking this well, he is being brave, he is taking it on the chin.
I'm not, I'm kicking the bloody rose bush.
PS Big thanks to Jennifer Neumann for nominating me for a BEST BLOG award. I truly don't deserve it.