THE CHRISTMAS BOMBARDMENT

Two weeks ago, my two sisters-in-law came to tea, all the way from our childhood home of Fowey, Cornwall, and it was lovely. It was so sweet of them to come, and fortunately I had already had my infusion, after several days of feeling absolutely awful.

I have mixed feelings about this time of year, perhaps heightened by these days of feeling awful... but I wonder if you feel the same way about the bombardment by people who need some money? They are all really good causes but you can't decide which one... should you give a little bit to this one, and a little bit to that one, or all to one charity? When you're not feeling amazing yourself, can you find the energy for it, or do you just shut your mind to it, and not worry about it at all? 

There is one charity I know I am going to give to this year, and that is the Arthur Rank Hospice Charity. It is the most amazing place - an incredible building, with the most amazing help made available. I have had some counselling there already, and have more sessions to come. I can just say what I feel, which is wonderful. Perhaps that is what decides the choice in the end... we give to the place that touches our heart through the most personal connection.

(Images: Fowey, Arthur Rank Hospice and Bloomsbury Therapy Centre)

TWO BLACK EYES AND A POT OF GOLD

Where has the month gone? My weeks are chocka with hospital visits and visits from friends and relations. I've barely had time for a film (except a rewatch of Little Women) or any television. But in the absence of those, I do have a story to tell about a little man named Terry. Well, actually he's not that little. When you see him stretched out on the chair with his feet up, he's actually quite tall, I think, but oh God, he's so thin. It was nice to see him the other day dressed in fairly new clothes, but he had terribly red rims around his eyes - oh, speaking of eyes, I've got a black eye, can you believe it? I think I got it when I was laughing with Caroline! Anyway, back to Terry - he was telling me has had to go into a home as his wife had recently died, and he was absolutely hating it. 'People don't converse in the home,' he said, 'they just look into space', which must be hard to take. His son, 50 years old, is trying to remodel their downstairs into a bath and bedroom while he's in the nursing home... but this is not the amazing part of the story. The extraordinary bit is that his wife used to beat him up! Apart from the verbal abuse, she broke his nose. I felt really, really sorry for him. He must have been so ground down, that he hadn't had the energy to leave her. He's a mild and clever man, an instrument maker, who ended his career with ten years at the university. 

Now here's the twist... his wife, who was very good and kind to their elderly neighbour, ended up being the recipient of £300,000 when the old lady died! Isn't life bizarre? The only silver lining is that his wife bought a house with that money, and, now that she has died, Terry is going to inherit it. Small justice, perhaps?