The Love Song Game #2

If you haven't played the Love Song Game yet, click the image above before continuing.

Oh go on.

Please.

Just this once.

You'll enjoy it!

It's in a good cause.

It will only take 5 minutes.

You'll be the envy of your friends and join a select band who stand to gain similar benefits.

It's fun!

OK, if you're still reading I presume you've already played the Love Song Game and I will continue.

I'm sorry about the waffle but I had to do something to keep the Love Song Game at the top of the Blog, aside from changing the date which I don't like to do.

If you are STILL reading this having NOT played the Love Song Game, the following won't make much sense to you.

I wore my mother's worsted suit, it was warm and woolly and itched worse than a rash. As we strolled along the beach with the ferrets on leads, she would stop occasionally to hack out multi-coloured phlegm and eject it emphatically into the breaking waves. Each time she did so I worried that the rib-cracking force would loosen her teeth and that I would have to enter the freezing water and retrieve her dentures.

Worse, she would insist on naming each sputum she spat, as if to cover up her ill-manners. "Saint Joe!" she'd sputter and then a minute later, "Mary!" and then a few minutes on, "Saint Theresa!" It was Saint Jude she needed, Jude Thaddeus to give him his full name, the patron saint of lost causes.

Having got absolutely soaked in a downpour just prior to arrival at the hospice, and generally being as tolerant of her madness as I could be, I accepted her offer of warm dry clothes without a murmur. I declined the frilly pink blouse however, and gratefully accepted the kind donation of a navy cotton smock from the only sympathetic care worker in the place, a young nigerian woman, who took pity on my plight and quietly intervened. To do so was the risk the wrath of this dying but still immensely strong woman, whose bad tempers were considerably improved by the painkillers. She took to morphine like she had been waiting for it all her life. I struggled into the garments. With a brisk nod, she demanded "Take me to the beach!" and strode through the front door like she had never been ill.

As we set off, through the window by the entrance, I caught the small grin of the nigerian woman. The place would be quieter for a couple of hours. She appreciated my efforts. God this was uncomfortable. I wished she would stop spitting. I wished the ferrets didn't smell so much and bite you when you tried to feed them.

I wished I had someone in my life.