Wilt

I know I shouldn’t complain. Some people have far more difficult lives than I have: war, famine, earthquake. But you know those lists of life events which are supposed to be the most stressful you can experience? I feel we’ve had most of these during this year alone. Of course, one of these has been spectacularly lovely: the arrival of Grandson. But most of the others haven’t.

For example, we’ve had birth (Grandson), marriage (Daughter 2) and death (my confused aunt, for whom I was the chief carer or at least the person who organised the care).

We’ve had engagement (Son), retiral (me), life-threatening illness (my mother).

We’ve tried and failed to sell a house (my mother’s). We’ve moved her in here (though her house is still full of her stuff – we quail at the thought of the further stress to come when we try to dispose of 89 years’ worth of rather copious possessions).

We’ve lost Daughter 2, when she moved permanently (or for the foreseeable future) to London, which has been so sad. And now, for the second time in two years, she’s lost her job. The architecture firm she worked for in Edinburgh more or less collapsed because of the financial crisis and then she moved to London for a six-week job which turned into an eleven-month one. But now that firm too has run out work. So – back from honeymoon, one week’s notice and that’s that, apart from a little freelance work to finish off a project.

Since she’s married an actor who doesn’t get all that much work, this means that they’re both now seriously impecunious. And the country’s financial position seems to be getting worse and worse.

Luckily, Grandson just beams affably despite it all.

I suppose there’s got to be a plot twist at some point. You think?

Can't I just be a cat? No? Well then, I'm complaining.