I'm well. Enjoyed the New Year's Eve drone show and some truly excellent wine. Cancer is an ongoing, daily and minor aspect of life. It makes me tired, nervy, jumpy, confused and all the rest, but it's still mine to live with. Four years post-op now - I'd love to send the nurse they call Nails a card, just to say hello.
More importantly, Leo is nearly four now. My expectations re what he can do and what he can actually do are still out of whack. Sometimes he's incredible - building Lego sets designed for six-to-eight year-olds one minute, then being rendered unable to put his trousers on the next. This might be Peak Three.
We managed to get around to signing him up for full-time education at the mighty Buckland Brewer Primary School, a mere four-minute walk from the front door. He starts in September, and when he does, I will have officially run out of things on my bucket list, as 'walk my son to school' is the last one. Completists would argue that I've not ticked everything off but I have three points on that. 1) Fuck completists, they're dull. Take every opportunity to subvert expectation, I say. 2) New things being added to the bottom of the list makes the top of the list irrelevant, and 3) It's my fucking list.
I don't know whether I've mentioned this yet - can't be bothered to check, as befits a recovering journalist - but I've got a new job. After three years of all this nonsense, I'm back earning, and even doing dirty freelance, again. Never been richer, or more tired, but point two far outweighs the significance of point one. How long it lasts is anyone's guess, but I'm not overly encumbered, and each day I finish is another £190 in the kettle, so I don't care, really.
More fuck-it news: I've started playing guitar again, and am enjoying the pure throaty roar of the Firebird a great deal. Sustain for days, tone for months. Lovely. That said, now that I'm earning - and Rob has pronounced my stuff 'pretty damn good', I might buy some more hardware and make some more things. Rob has good ears after all.
