LHB Blog

A girl, a blog and a cactus named Pudding

Tag: macmillan (Page 1 of 3)

The change in my pocket

Alternative title : Who knew that £1.68 could throw me into an internal grief meltdown. It’s just money right? And not a lot of it. I mean, can you even buy a Freddo nowadays for £1.68? … But create an internal grief meltdown it did. The day it fell out of my coat pocket and bounced into the driver foot-well of my car. I still have no idea where £1.50 of that ended up … The remaining 18p feels like the most precious thing in the world to me right now, all because the last person to touch it (aside from me) was my dad. 

I know it’s silly to feel as though I’ve lost a part of him because I lost £1.50 that he gave me, but right now that is exactly what it feels like and as much as I adore Monty (my car) I was ready to tear it apart in search of those missing coins.

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Taking Time to Heal

Alternative title: When the arse end falls out of your world you sometimes just need to take a bit of time out to regroup, reassess and start again …

While I apologise for falling off the face of the earth without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs (in fairness I would probably have eaten them as I went), I did need the time away to get my shit together and to give my melancholy soul a swift kick up the jacksy. I’m hoping this post will signal my return to LHB HQ but I can’t say for certain as I don’t want to promise a schedule that I then can’t commit to in case I suddenly relapse into a grief breakdown and find myself bawling uncontrollably in a heap in the biscuit aisle at my local Tesco while shoveling custard creams into my mush as a group of old dears shake their heads and tut at my attire (usually a pair of boxers that have seen better days and a thread-bare t-shirt).

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The Waiting Room

Alternative title: I’m in the midst of a grief fueled bawling session right in the middle of the GP’s waiting room … And that’s ok. 

I can’t stop it …Trust me I tried, well, kind of … But instead of managing to calm my system down I was merely managing choked sobs, the tears still fell, my body still shook, I wiped my nose on my sleeve (disgusting I know but the tissues were long gone and I was scared to move in case I locked myself in the toilets and missed my appointment while howling at the sanitary bin). One by one my fellow patients stood and moved as far away from me as they could, the men folding their arms and looking at the board detailing symptoms for STI’s as though it was the new “War and Peace“, the women tapping each other on the arms and whispering, possibly debating Brexit or something equally topical (not that I could hear them over my sniffles) … Not wanting to look, but watching all the same.

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In which I blame Bill Bryson

Alternative title: I’m huddled in a duvet on the sofa, my partner’s hoodie acting as a comfort blanket, my face puffy from crying, with Millie-Mischief the Bengal patting my head in some weird consolation type thing (or maybe she just likes my hair – who knows what’s going on in her kitty mind) … And yet, part of my brain is wondering just where the hell I can get myself a Stephen Katz to go hike the Appalachian Trail with. 

To me that doesn’t seem unreasonable, to just simply pack a rucksack, select a 3-season tent, grab a shit ton of Jelly Tots (though I’d settle for Fruit Pastilles) and hike all 2,200 miles. Yep, 2,200 MILES. Total doddle that.

Except I’m the lass who whinged and moaned and turned the air a lovely shade of dark blue during her last jaunt up Helm Crag – which incidentally, is a drop in the proverbial ocean compared with the Appalachian Trail! Much like with running, I love the idea of it … But when actually running/hiking, I bitch for England about how unfair it is and how my poor feet are going to end up as giant blisters which will eventually pop and end up stuck to my socks.

Maybe I’ve got this all wrong …

Maybe I should be looking for a Bryson to hike with because clearly, I’m the Katz!

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