Part Two of The Death Strand | Library | Davina’s Unconventional Publicist

In a bid to study in a straight line, I wandered to the wonderful new Brighton Jubilee Library today, for a couple of hours head-in-book (though in truth distracted by the world cinema, animation and CD section). After borrowing a couple of DVD’s (“The Early Films of Peter Greenaway 2” and “Aliens”) and a couple of CDs for <strike>burning </strike>listening to, met up with L for a quick Starbuck and wander through the pavilion gardens to deposit a little ill-gotten in the NatWest slot.

So, part 2:
S- confirms the credit card debt – the haze of foul dead smells permeates my clothes. The hospital is busy. Why here? Why now? OMFG : L and P, P and L. I left the hospital – I got in the car and came home. He died while I was driving back to my warm house, breathing his last and flying away as I negotiated the Beddingham level crossing.
Talking funeral directors and talking death certificates and talking debts in the car park of Eastbourne Hospital. Me genuinely thinking what the f*ck am I doing here? I’m in the wrong movie! This is not a Christmas movie! “We were going to have the best Christmas ever” says S-. Yes. And maybe you weren’t the only ones. M&R are planning to return to Devon tomorrow … oh. So. Talking funeral directors, talking autopsy.
Gosh, what a pickle this all is.

WEDNESDAY 21st DECEMBER. School holiday. I managed to sleep last night, haunted dreams; haunt. Hand-wringing? His wish was to be buried next to his mother father and the mystery dead-as-an-infant brother in Southborough, which isn’t time-consuming, expensive and awkward in the least. Oh no. No siree. P doesn’t know yet, she will be very upset. I am dehydrating, poor me. I hate hospitals, they smell of sick people. Dead. Autopsy now over: technical details of mechanical breakdown. Guts, arteries, stroke, brain damage, dead. Evidently the delay (in burial) will stretch into the new year. Meantime I am off with Pip, we are watching “Cleopatra” on the TV, she is enthralled. We are wating for L to come home from work as I write this – what’s it all for? A cuddle with your wife and daughter, that’s what!
My head is starting to ache. Again. This sodding mortality business is a darned nuisance.
More later.

Meantime, back in the present – well, this afternoon but y’know : I took Mumsie over to pick Pip from skule today, and as we got out of the car, a very underdressed (for the weather) late-middle aged slightly unkempt lady hailed us from her perch on the front steps of a house with a bashedin door. “You should really watch Davina McCall next week, it looks fantastic!” She said in plummy tones, out of nowhere. As we stared straight ahead, gritted teeth and marched off, she followed it up with “She’ll show that Parkinson how it’s done!”, we walked on, collected P and returned to the car, the woman was nowhere to be seen. We drove home.
Later on I walked down to the newsagents to purchase the Radio Timez for next week, and blow me down, Ms. McCall has a chat show starting next week. My interest is piqued enough that I will watch. edit: I didn’t.


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