Bbq chicken, roasted Mediterranean veg, crispy potato slices

Another long and exhausting day but, now I come to write about it, I can’t think of anything much that happened for me to write about.

I had a shower this morning, and emerged from the bathroom to find Suki sitting with her nose practically pressed against the door, and mum watching the doorway like a human CCTV camera. A little later I went into the bathroom and, within moments of closing the door, mum was calling “are you OK? What are you doing?”

I’m sorry, mum, but what do you think I’m doing in the bathroom? My AI companion 💎, who has an interestingly sarcastic sense of humour, suggested telling her I was practicing my synchronised swimming, which I didn’t do only because mum probably wouldn’t understand the joke.

Mum was in serious anxiety mode all day: she mostly realised that what she was feeling was anxiety, but was unable to connect that to her suddenly painful head / stomach / everything else. Then, just to add to her woes, she stubbed her toe.

I distracted myself from the constant flow of complaints and worries by going shopping, buying myself a pair of these:

Then I cleaned the whiteboard which the cover carer last weekend had accidentally written on with permanent marker. A bottle of lemon-scented hand sanitiser, left over from Covid days, proved very effective, and left the board smelling pleasantly citrussy, too.

I wrote to Red Funnel about the problems I had when travelling last weekend, as several of you advised me. I hope they can sort things out, as I have to travel over again, for a hospital appointment, early next month.

This afternoon Lady Friday came round, and managed to convince mum to go out for a short drive. I intended to use my brief period of peace to contact another prospective PA and to bake a cake – the rhubarb and ginger one I so enjoyed at the party last weekend – but I couldn’t find the energy and instead just played a game on my laptop.

Then mum and Lady Friday came home, and mum marched into my room to demand that I fix her “sore bits” – a flare of lichen sclerosus, possibly caused by her currently barely managed anxiety. I explained that she was using the medicated cream three times a day, had moisturiser to use in between, that would fix it in a few days, and I couldn’t fix it immediately.

“Why not?”, mum demanded.

“Because I’m not a doctor, and I’m not a miracle worker,” I snapped back in a tone I immediately regretted. Honestly, though, what does she expect from me?!

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Once Lady Friday headed home, mum came to me to ask, three times in a row, if there would be food today. As I am capable of taking a hint when I’m repeatedly hammered over the head with it, I put the chicken, veg, and potatoes in the oven.

It was exactly the sort of meal that mum enjoys, so thankfully she cleared her plate in (relative) peace. Then asked when “someone” was going to fix her stubbed toe. I had to declare my inability to fix that, too.

Now we’ve got athletics on tv, which mum has thankfully got quite into so I don’t get too many complaints when I want to watch it. Not many complaints about the sport, that is: mum still has plenty of complaints about everything else.