erastes

I’m making notes about Dad and my caring experience. The long view is that I hope one day to write a book sharing my experiences to give other people in the same boat the feeling that it’s not just happening to them. However, having bashed out a page of it today, I have discovered that it’s not going to be an easy thing to write by any means, but also I NEED to write it. I have a lot of thoughts that I’m not voicing—not with anyone—and just writing things down has always been cathartic with me. I used to write journals in lined notebooks, reams and reams of thoughts about my life and got out of the habit of doing that.

I was listening to Radio4 the other day and John Suchet (I think, the not poirot one) has just done a similar thing, written a book about his wife and her journey to dementia and the way its affected him (and her). Some of what he said was exactly what I am going through—and I got rather upset I have to say. My more cynical friends immediately said “yes, you were upset he’d done the book before you.” which made me laugh, and it’s humour that is needed.

Anyway- that’s the long view. It won’t however be published as Erastes. “My Daddy” by Erastes would be a VERY VERY different book indeed. *snort*

And it is indeed too ‘ot. I am a child of the temperature sixties and I like my English summers to be 21 degrees with a nice breeze.