And I Could Send You Pretty Flowers Have Them Waitin' At Your Door

Last weekend was sunny and hot and I thought summer had arrived. Yesterday I woke up to a thunder storm. It rained all day. Work was stressful because I'm trying to finish a few things before leaving for Mexico. I fell asleep on the train. And then? I walked in the door to these:


They're not from S (though that boy should be buying me flowers after all the effort I put into Festival of S.) Barnie sent them. Since getting word from J that Barnie wasn't doing too well, I've been calling him every Sunday. We don't have long conversations; the connection is never great and Barnie's hearing is failing. It's nice to speak to him though, to know that he's okay. He spends a good portion of every conversation complaining about his aches and pains, the inadequacy of his homecare workers and the weather. It's like old times, back in the pub. Lately he has started to talk about dying. It's difficult to hear him say that he probably won't be alive by the time I make it back to England. I listen though; I don't shush him. I wouldn't want to be silenced if I were in his position. If I were dying, I wouldn't be able to talk about anything else. So I let him tell me that he's not afraid to die. I agree with him that he's had a good, long life. All the while, fervently - selfishly - hoping that he hangs on just a little bit longer.

The card read "Thank you for caring. Love Barnie." No-one should ever feel the need to thank another for caring about them. It made me sad for Barnie, who has family who live a short drive away and yet spends every day alone.

And then Stella swooped in and saved me from becoming too emo:

Stella, standing on her back legs.

Stella, jumping roughly 3 times her own height. Seriously. I would not believe it if I didn't have photographic proof. I don't know what she has against flowers but they turn her into an even crazier monster than she usually is.