This is a hard one to start, my friends.
Thank you all so much for your kind comments about Das Kapitan, who was found with his cabin doors to automatic on 28th August.
Herr L was far from a saint; and far be it from anyone to think that any of us are.
What I am most pleased about it that not three weeks earlier, he and I had gone to visit my mum’s grave in Somerset, in the village where we grew up, on the ninth anniversary of her death. We’d gone on to have a lovely evening in Wells, where us kids went to school. Two days after that, we’d taken him on the Portsmouth Harbour tour – something he had always wanted to do. We had a nice dinner at home and my lovely carer drove him the 1.5hrs back to his place on the Friday AS I WAS HAVING MY HEARING AID FITTED. Pardon?
The old sod will have his funeral in that very spot, in Somerset, in that church, and be interred next to our mum there, in due course.
His visit was not without hilarity, of course. We didn’t get round to a Gerald Lecture as his views on the Tory leadership competition were (are!) unpublishable.
We were having a walk around the Wednesday market in Wells, not surprisingly, on the Wednesday. We reached a point at the bottom of the market square, and suddenly, a memory came to him. He stood IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAVEMENT, back towards pedestrian traffic, and said:
“Do you remember when…” – thrusting his stick out to the right at shoulder height – and in the process, nearly decapitating a kindly old lady behind him.
“DAD!!!” I shouted – “You mustn’t do that! I’m so sorry, kindly old lady!”
“Don’t worry my lovey,” said she. “I had my eye on him.”
A little bit of tutting later, he resumes his story.
You know the rest.
Next victims are an elderly couple. The stick hits the gentleman’s chest. He may well have been a kindly old gentleman in normal life – but not so today.
“Watch out old you stupid old bugger!” (that wasn’t me, by the way).
I repeat the “DAD!!!!” bit and he tells me to shut up, and that he won’t tell me about the story now anyway. At this point, my FitBit has leapt off my wrist due to the explosion in heart rate, I’m redder than a sunburned beetroot with embarrassment, and it’s down to me to collect up all the dead bodies left in his wake. Dads: who’d have ‘em??
We’ll say that Gerry was definitely special – in all the right, and all the wrong ways. Anyway – hopefully he is running around upstairs trying to pinch my mum’s bum and getting her to make the tea (given he’s had to do it for himself for the last nine years – he was NOT happy!).
Apart from the sadness, there of course was some inconvenience for me.
I was contemplating this as I took my cellulite for a long walk along the shore, following the patriach’s departure.
While I have had cancer for five years – of which, lung cancer for three years now, it’s not very interesting as blog material unless I am actually in treatment. Then, I can tell you how funny it is to have all these ridiculous procedures and what a laugh the whole thing is. Dad has filled in those gaps; damn you, Dad! What the heck am I going to do now??
You know how I have always said what a lucky person I am?
Well – that luck has struck again! I KNOW!!!
Fortunately, two days before the Dadster made his exit, I’d only been told I’ve now got Stage IV lung cancer (um..there is no Stage V) – too many tumours now, across both lungs (poo) to even count! No treatment other than palliative chemo, for as long as it works, and as long as it doesn’t leave the lungs.
Obviously, because I’m such an attention seeker, I have a rare and untreatable genetic mutation called KRAS. It’s known colloquially as the Death Star. I call it something else, colloquially or otherwise! The shit causes cancer cells to divide and multiply at at rate faster than the national speed limit. This means that any success with the chemo (in reducing or managing the spread) is effectively futile. Like me when I used to go and use the treadmill at the gym (Pah! Fat help that proved to be 😂😂😂🤦♀️), I’ll be running on the spot.
This is GOLD. Who could have such a rich seam of material to mine, until I have no mine(d). Genius!
Gone are the periods of writers’ block; nothing funny to say; boring old ramblings.
Then I had a birthday (as of now, I don’t care what the number is!).
Because I have so many gorgeous friends, for the last two weeks, flowers, cards and all sorts have been arriving. I don’t know whether they’re going to say, “Sorry your dad died, “Sorry you are dying,” or “Happy Birthday!”. It’s bloody hilarious!
I caused this mess, because I smoked fags. I cannot, and will not, complain.
Strap yourselves in chickettes; the roller coaster, the tsunami, the big adventure, starts now.
Stay with me! The fun starts next week 😊
Who's going to get the chicken? 