More of the same – In the name of Thiago – Day 242

 

The problem with grieving is it’s brutal unforgiving relentlessness. It’s a bit like how Wigan’s rugby league time were in the early 90s hoovering up all the trophies, likewise grief hoovers up all my positivity for long spells – the big horrible bastard that it is.

 

Well not quite all of it, I’m not done here yet folks fear not! I had a really enlightening conversation with my unofficial grief counsellor big Kev. Kev is small and bald hence the name. I like him a lot. Kev has a remarkable understanding of raw human emotions and has an incredible knack of knowing when to empathise fully and when to share a joke. I’m a lot happier for having big Kev in my life. I doubt he says the same but that’s his fucking problem!

 

 

Big Kev has helped me out of a hole today by confirming that he’s going to walk the entire leg of day 21 of my walk from Lapworth railway station to Birmingham Children’s Hospital. Apparently, there will be some form of welcoming committee for my arrival, but I’ve always been gunning for someone to share the whole day with me and Kev’s the man for that particular day, for which I’m really grateful. It’ll be a special day as I stroll up to the front doors of the hospital on Friday 9 October.

 

Another bloke to chip in with a handy little idea is a fella called Guy from my work. As I can’t very easily take contactless donations on my walk without it causing me too much aggro really, Guy has suggested that I just put some basic details on a business card or something like that to hand out on my walk for people that aren’t carrying cash – which is most people these days. I realise that this won’t necessarily transfer to actual donations, but even if only one in ten followed up, that’s still a few quid I wouldn’t have got otherwise. Thank you Guy.

 

 

You’ll have seen loads of annoying photos posted by proud parents on Facebook I’m sure already today, well here’s another one to add to the mix. The other girls on the bus have had fancy looking braids and the like – you know the classic fuck it, we’d better make an effort, it’s her first day type scenario – but Elisa has always said bollocks to that bless her. Considering she makes virtually naf all effort she don’t ‘arf brush up alright.

 

As is standard these days, I wasn’t permitted a hug or anything remotely close to a show of affection but that’s how it is for her ladyship. Angélica gets a hug and is allowed to kiss her on the bonce but of course that’s because she’s a girl. I hate it but I’m learning to live with it. Ironic really: when the little man was around cuddles were always on tap, now I don’t get a look in.

 

The bus disappeared off up Keele Road at 7:52 this morning, which I worked out as being on average five hours before Elisa’s usual waking time in the summer. And yes, Elisa was on it. She’s come home full of beans, immediately chucked on some other clothes and bombed over to her mate Bella’s gaff and then onward to Niamh’s. She should sleep like a log tonight I’d imagine.

 

I’m sleeping like a log too at the moment, which is one of the benefits of crying every day for fucking ages. It certainly takes the wind out the sails. Two weeks and three days to go: that’s all there is before the start of the big walk and I’ve got another £1,300 left to raise. Let’s do this folks, I thank you.