Woke up all grotty and groggy this morning. I was still half-in my fermenting pit at 8 AM, when a workman suddenly appeared on the scaffolding, inches away. I suppose his shock must have been a lot worse than mine, seeing me sitting there naked, performing my futile anti--bingo wing exercises, but he scared the hell out of me. Mucho mortification.
I continued to feel rough and queasy, and actually postponed my latest hospital appointment, as I just couldn't face going tortuously to Guy's in the drizzly dark (6:30 PM!). I want to be sure I'm as well as possible for the MCR.
Had an email from the sibling, who says she's still traumatised, and doesn't know if she'll ever be able to speak about some of the things she uncovered at my mother's...WTF? No point in pressing her, of course, she's certainly had more than her share of the horror, the past few years.
Very curious documentary on TV last night, about the cheesy lounge singer 'Hutch' who was a superstar in the 20'-40's. He had many affairs with high-society/royal laydeez, including a longterm thing with Edwina Mountbatten. It seems that one day they actually got stuck together like dogs, and had to be carted off to hospital like that, which resulted in a juicy scandal. I didn't know that could actually happen. Someone should've tried throwing a bucket of water over them...