Pack Holiday was one exhausting blast, and I feel as though I could sleep for a week now.  I did end up emailing work at 7.30 on Monday morning to inform them that I should have taken the day off, and that I would be in late - I needed an extra hour asleep in order to be able to work out how to get the shower to function!  Bless the Brownies, they tried their best, they had me panicking about swine flu (false alarm, thank heavens), they climbed, they ran, they picked blackberries and they had an awful lot of fun.

Returning from Pack Holiday, I found myself with a deadline of Friday for The Book (draft six).  I was counting on one more draft, but it seems that it might be two, depending on what the publishers actually think, as opposed to my wonderful editor.  Apparently it has been known for them to demand whole sections be rewritten.  I might scream at that point if it happens.  I do hope not.  Anyhow, with the sterling support of my Welshman, who cooked enough chilli last night that all I needed to do was reheat it tonight, I have sorted it out, as well as produced a first draft of the introduction and the afterword.  All is thus well with the world, and I can go camping at the weekend with him and with impunity. 

Well, it would be with impunity but, it seems, no sooner am I over the last chest infection, but I have a sore throat again.  I shall be gargling with TCP tonight, which will make me terribly attractive.  As it stands, I need to organise myself for the camping trip (i.e. pack underwear, locate my waterproof trousers, and, possibly, put the dry laundry away), make sure that I actually take all the stuff I need with me tomorrow, as I have a wedding to attend at 3pm in Ealing, and relocate my sitting room table again.

I have also just ordered a new showerhead from Argos.

xxx

I did manage to go to work: but I came home after a couple of hours.  Too many people, too  much  need to talk, not enough voice.  I am highly frustrated that I cannot, as yet, work from home, but hope that this shall be forthcoming soon.  My brain is fine, but my lungs are annoying.

I need to throw this chest infection - or arrange for someone else to take over the First Aid duties at Pack Holiday.  Or both.  We'll see. 

I spent half an hour on the phone with Mum.  Quite why she needed to rake up matters from family deaths from, I think, before I was born, I know not - but she is still rather upset about it.  So I listened, and pushed her towards the nice thoughts about her Aunt, and asked to see some photos of the various Aunts and Uncles involved, and suggested that we might put them up in the house, because, you know, they're important people to her.  Then I phoned one of her cousins, as it seems, in the process of cleaning out Great Uncle Dick's house, they found a lot of photos from Great Aunt Mary's side of the family and "no one knows where in Ireland she's from".  "Yes we do," I pipe, "Ballyemena".  I have her convent medal, you see, it's one of my favourite pieces of jewellery.

Em's funeral was a lovely service, with about a dozen Guiders, and lots of her other friends.  We all sat together, which meant we had moral support for each other - and also that we cried like a silent greek chorus.  And shared our tissues amongst ourselves.  It was terribly sad.  We should have been there for her wedding.  We said goodbye, and we will miss her.  And, it feels like I've reached the end of this particular chapter.  Not necessarily the book, but certainly this chapter.  The next chapter begins when her Dear Other phones, and I continue as liasion for Guiding Matters and help sort out what to do with all the books, and her uniform, and her files of games.  Her Dad loves to talk about matters Guiding, and it's nice to listen.

Have finally managed to work out that I need to write a cheque for £345, but at times had managed to make it a cheque for £455 and one for £275.  It took two of us to sort it all out.

You would never believe I'd done maths A-Level and got an A grade, would you?  It's true.

I also found (having lost them when there was someone around to sign them) the forms for changing the signatures on the bank accounts.  This is helpful.  I have those forms, the forms for the address change, and will sort it all out this weekend.  Maybe.  Also, sorting out Guider-in-Charge-ness.  We came to a conclusion that there will be joint Guider-in-Charge-ness.

I spent much of the day trying to find out how many Guiding people are going to Emily's funeral, fielding questions about what to wear (Debrett's was no help whatsoever), and sorting out that we shall send some group flowers.  I would like to assemble the posy myself, but I don't know that I have time to.  I shall have to decide quite quickly tomorrow night, based on the flowers available at the flower stall.  If not, then I shall order from the funeral directors, and pray.  Once again, I could have done with sorting this out a little earlier.  Family flowers plus Guiding flowers.  Blue and yellow flowers.

Wish I didn't have to do it at all.  It is wearing being diplomatic.  So much communication puts me in a bad mode (or mood), and I mis-express myself.  It will be nice to have it All Over and Done and have Pack Holiday All Over and Done and then it's just a case of going camping with the Welshman and relaxing properly for the first time in quite some while.  One of my Guides has written the loveliest speech, and read it down the phone at me, and it will be very beautiful at the memorial service.

I have so many things that I want to tell Em.  I miss her.  I'm not crying.  I just miss her.

xxx

Pull yourself together, drink copious quantities of tea, and start to get on with it.

Or something like that.  The pulling together is a bit tenuous, the tea is in industrial quantities, and getting on with it happens sporadically, as long as I actually manage to write down what it is that I am supposed to be getting on with.  I should be in two different places at the moment, however, I am actually at home and have just managed to mend both the towel rail and the broken mosaic tile in the bathroom.  Which is something that the Great Dane Puppy will appreciate, and should mean that the rent gets paid.

People are so kind.  They keep offering to listen.  I haven't got much to say.  But I know I have lots of people who will listen, and who will hug, if required.  This is very much appreciated.  I do rather want to be hugged.  I'm holding out for the Welshman.  He's good at long, patient hugs, and I think I need one of them.

I also haven't had a decent cry since a rather prolonged session very late on Thursday night, which was fuelled with alcohol and very very snotty.  I am wondering whether to worry about this, and deciding, probably not.  It'll come when I'm good and ready for it.  Or when my system is good and ready for it, even if I'm not.  There is a limit to how much sobbing one can do on public transport after all (and no, I haven't done that since Thursday.  I did a very good mournful on Saturday, and then disgraced myself by nearly falling asleep at a friend's house).  I am buttoned up and carrying on.

I am beginning to feel rather more human after three days of autopilot and contacting people to let them know.  I am avoiding Torchwood for the time being, I think it might be a Bit Too Much to cope with.  The review in the Times put me off.

Onwards.  I have to Do Stuff.  To do with Guides.  I think.

Who can say?

xxx

You took my friend from me today.

I don't like you.

I'm going to miss her.

Lots.

Rest in peace, Em.  God takes the good ones first.

(Two years ago, Kirsty, me and Em)

xxx

It's hard to know where to begin here.  There has been an awful lot going on.  There is an awful lot that needs doing.

Firstly, I did have a huge rant about cancer, and put it in protected.  But now?  Oh.  Let's be open about this.  Let's quit with the taboos.  I work for a cancer charity (and, on Friday night, before Brownies, I was running round every single floor of the building trying to locate a set of leaflets with the phone number of the youth support line on it.  No-one really knew where they were, so I've ordered some).  One of my best friends, one of my fellow Guiders, is dying of cancer.  We're not talking months here.  We may be lucky and get weeks: but really, it's no sort of life for her.  So much pain, so much medication, the oxygen tubes, the commode in the sitting room, the constant presence of nurses, doctors, prescriptions, injections, painkillers, numbness, fingers that don't work, a mouth that can't always talk straight, lungs that won't breathe without nebulisers and oxygen.  Em's take on it is here.

With all that going on, I'm astounded that I managed to make her laugh last night.  It goes to show you how special our Em is.  She's of the mentality that, where possible, you keep on keeping on.  Her fiancé (they got engaged three days ago, and the flat looks like a flower shop) looks after her, worries, is driven nuts by the number of people in the place, and is always friendly, and kind, and caring.  He worries so: he has spent the last two years worried out of his mind, but never, ever snarls, never seems to get het up.  It's so unfair that their life together has been taken away from them.

I feel selfish for wanting a little more of her, guessing how ill she feels, seeing how much medication she has, knowing that she's mostly sleeping now.  I am going to miss her horribly.  On Thursday night, I spent a good hour just crying all over The Welshman, and attempting to sort out some sort of perspective.

On Friday, he got his phone stolen, got lost on his way to Em's house (bringing the most pretty bunch of sweet peas to add to the chaos of the flat-full-of-flowers), sweated profusely, was pretty bloody angry as he arrived just as I shot off to Brownies: and Em's Dear Other came out, and said hello to him (TW) while he was sitting on the kerb, and was kindness personified on his (DO's) way to collect some more medication for Em, and TW went into the flat and delivered the flowers, and, finally, I think, understood how bloody cancer is.  He too got a bit of perspective.

I don't know if I'm going to see Em again.  Ever.  I hope I shall.  I don't want to let go.  I don't want to have to say goodbye.  Each visit, I need to think to myself that it might be the last.  Make sure that I keep her smiling as much as I can.  Make sure that I am the best friend I can be.  Make sure that, if she died tomorrow, there was nothing unfinished.  Making sure I remember the good bits, and acknowledge the bad.

The tears, and there's a hellish quantity of them, can happen in private.  At home.  In the loos at work.  On the tube home, if necessary (which did happen on Thursday).  Surrounded by strangers is about as private as being on my own, after all.

It's not time to put the stars out, or pack up the moon, or dismantle the sun.  That ocean and wood, we still want them. 

In the meantime, go and do something good for someone.  Even better, go and get involved in your local Scout, Guide, Girl Scout, Rainbow, Daisy Girl Scout, Brownies group.  Go offer to help with the accounts, or paperwork.  Go and do an activity that is heaps of fun with someone else's kids.  Start a living memorial while I can tell her about it: because one thing she loves to hear is that the Guides are having fun, and doing stuff.

And, on that note, I've just emailed to find out about Graffiti Art Workshops, as she thinks that the Guides would LOVE to spend an afternoon doing just that.

xxx