My friends Amy and Joe came to visit London from Leeds. It was fun to see them, we ate good food, they are great.
I spent an inordinately huge amount of money (TWENTY TWO POUNDS FIFTY) going to see the Antony Gormley exhibition because a) my friend Heidi wanted to go, b) I’m trying to be cultured and take advantage of all this great city has to offer and c) he did some cool stuff right? It was entirely a rip off and I feel vaguely grumpy about it, though I do like going to see an art with Heidi. (And there were good bits, just not enough, and it was way too crowded)
Afterwards I schlepped over to Bethnal Green to see Salami Rose Joe Lewis play a free show. She is on the edges of being too twee for my liking, but hey, it was free…
Thinking about politics. Fucking hell politics.
I mentioned S last month. We went on a date. I liked them a lot. They liked me too. But just as friends. I hoped that we actually would be friends, because sometimes 'let's be friends' is a thing that people say to people they’ve gone on internet dates with when they actually mean ‘I hope never to see you again’. But we continued texting prolifically after our first date, and they came over to cook me a dinner (IN MY OWN HOUSE, what a fucking dreamboat). They made me a great risotto, and we said we’d watch a movie but then stayed up until nearly midnight talking. They live in some distant part of North London (where even), so I asked if they wanted to stay. We watched half a movie then fell asleep next to each other and it was outrageously sweet, though entirely platonic.
The next day we had breakfast in bed, watched the rest of the movie, they came and walked Charlie with me, we shared a massive brownie, and then they went home. I wallowed around for a while feeling CONFUSED (but like, nice), and then went out to my friend Lucy (aka Marmor Paperie)’s open studios in Deptford. Our other friend Lyall came too and we had great pizza.
And then it ALL WENT WRONG. When I picked up Charlie from one of his Borrow My Doggy friends after pizza the night before, he had a bit of a limp starting on the walk home, but seemed otherwise perky enough. The next day however, he was entirely miserable. He didn’t want to leave the house (unheard of), barely wanted his food, and was generally sleepy and miserable (as well as still limping, though there was nothing visibly wrong with his foot). We curled up all day cuddling and I booked him a vet for the next day.
And then, OH NO. I came down the next morning and Charlie's foot had gone from no visible wound to massively swollen and freely bleeding. He had presumably chewed it overnight (there was a little bit of blood on his snoot, so I knew!), but over the course of the morning before our vet's appointment he was lying completely still and not touching it and every time I went and looked, the wound was more open. He could just barely walk, so I had to carry him most of the way to the bus stop, and onto the bus. He slumped out on the floor staring up at me sadly with a sock over his foot to stop him bleeding all over the place. The lady sat next to us said 'He loves you so much, just look at the way he looks at you!' and I nearly cried.
I carried him into the vet, who seemed perturbed to say the least. They took his temprature with a butt thermometer (he didn't like that) and he was running an incredibly high fever. His foot was by this point a mess, wound wide open, freely bleeding, skin sort of gross and sloppy and falling away, it was truly horrible. They bundled him away and told me they'd call me later in the afternoon once they knew what the problem was.
I stepped out of the vet without him, which hadn't even occured to me would happen, and briefly burst into tears. Then looked down and realised my hands were covered in a disgusting combination of fur, thermometer-butt-lube and blood. Walked home feeling disgusting and miserable.
Luckily, Dav was visiting for work that evening, and he was able to come with me to the vet's to collect Charlie. The vet hadn't told me anything on the phone (other than he was a very sweet boy who had behaved well). They had anaesthatised him to try and sew up the wound, but, (as the vet took us aside into a room to tell us before giving the boy back), whatever was wrong was a complete mystery. 'You don't see skin necrosis like this in the UK — are you sure you haven't taken him abroad?!'
There was talk of us maybe having to go see the Supervet (which would have been a silver lining I guess, I love that guy). He might lose the toe. Even the foot? The infection had spread so fast up his leg that the whole thing was swollen and in himself, he was still completely hopeless, (coupled with the effects of the anaesthetic). I cried hopelessly while Dav paid attention to the details of all the medicines I would need to give him.
They gave him back to me and I bundled him into a taxi and held him close all the way home with his big comedy leg bandage, carrying him down the street home (putting him down briefly for a wee, but he basically collapsed over and refused to go)
Dav got us takeaway while I cried some more and left a series of stressed voicemail messages for all the people who'd been asking me how he was.
It was THE BAD TIMES.
Pets, why do we have them?!
The next day was... stressful?! Charlie was still Captain Sad, the saddest boy in all the land. The cost for his treatment was £800+ (and counting), so you know, insurance, agh, how does it work etc. On top of that I had work to do, of course, but also our new housemate Tabitha was moving in, my friend Daisy was coming to stay that evening, and my mum was visiting that afternoon. Actually, Mum and Daisy's presence was much needed moral support, and I was delighted to have Tabitha move in, but it was all just a LOT.
Oh, and I was meant to be flying to the US in under a week. Can I even still go if the boy is this sick?! Can I even make a decision yet?! The uncertainty! AGH!
We went back in for a bandage change. It was too soon to tell if the wound was showing any signs of healing (certainly still too messy for them to even be able to put stitches in as the flesh was still just falling away). The vet suggested I wait until Friday to figure out if I could go on my trip the following Monday. AGH!
Oh, and all the while it’s the run up to the fucking ELECTION, like can you even imagine the constant background noise of all of that going on alongside this?! S is a fairly active member of the leftest leaning bits of the Labour Party, and over the course of our fevered panicked political texts they had vaguely managed to instill some hope in me that things maybe might be okay. Maybe Jeremy'll take it. Maybe we can reverse all the harm that's been done. Maybe there's hope.
I got my nails painted red and went out to do some last minute door-to-dooring with my friend Charlotte for Labour. I voted. I hoped.
My friend Beck came to stay that night. We ignored the exit polls for as long as we could, but... in the end, they couldn't be ignored. We both went to bed miserable. I exchanged a lot of bleak texts with S. Felt scared and depressed and... hopeless?
I woke up the next day and immediately resumed my application to become a listening volunteer for the Samaritans (I had to stop it when I moved to Yorkshire as there wasn't a centre close enough for me to work at). I have a feeling this country's going to need a lot of listeners over the coming years.
I took the boy to the vet. He can walk to the bus now. The vet says his foot's healing but it still looks pretty horrible. The fever has gone though. He'll need bandage changes all next week. I can't go to America. (On Monday at least, but maybe later still?)
I work and I eat and I wonder what life is going to look like for the next four years. I text S and ask them to come over.
They do, and we... uh... commiserate? 👀
Because what I really need right now is MORE FEELINGS IN THE MIX LOLOLOL (These are the good ones though, damn)
I saw a creative prompt from an artist on Instagram a while ago that said ‘make a collage from the contents of your recycling bin’, so here’s the story of my life right now in scrap paper basically
By this point, the boy is quite literally up and running again. Which comes with its own problems. London has, so far in my time living there, been very UN-RAINY, but in the one week where this is actually a massive problem, it poured down, every day for days, and the boy's bandage cannot get wet. Even though I was only taking him to the park and back for wees (no big walks allowed, much to his distress), somehow seemingly no matter what elaborate combination of plastic bags and elastic bands I was covering it with, water was getting in, and we had to go to the vet and get him rebandaged early because of it, which was deeply stressful. (Massive shout out to my main job for being so incredibly patient with my repeated vet trips and generally incredibly fragile ability to function at all over this period)
By this point both I and the boy have fairly severe cabin fever. I've gone from walking an average of 7 – 10 miles a day with him to... nothing?! And I've been reluctant to leave him home alone for too long in case he decides to start chewing at the bandage (which he hasn't been at all to be fair), so I've barely left the house. But I desperately need some space and air and, dare I say it, affection from another human... So with the boy now just about able to walk for 10 – 15 minutes at a time, I take him, freshly bandaged, for a sleepover with some of his favourite Borrow My Doggy pals, and I get the tube up to the darkest depths of North London (well, Highgate), to see S. They live in a tiny bedsit, and from the moment I arrive I am INCREDIBLY SOOTHED. What a joy to be around someone who is incredibly clean, ordered, methodical, and tidy in their space. Someone who keeps plants alive. Someone who has nicer bed sheets than I do (and clean!). Someone who gently feeds me, and makes me drink fluids, and holds me close, and makes me feel completely safe and comfortable (and other things besides). Feelings are happening, and tbh I hadn't really planned for this, but here we all are.
S makes me porridge and I eat it in bed. I stay at their place working until lunchtime when I go and fetch the boy. He had a fun time. I had a fun time. We tell each other about our days while I take him to the vet for another bandage change (it's worth mentioning what an incredibly brave, stoical pup he has been throughout this process, sitting still for his bandage changes with no need for a sedative, even when they're poking and prodding around the wound. Apparently border collies often have a low pain threshold, so the vet was particularly impressed). It's healing well now. A plan becomes apparent.
I go home and rebook my flights to leave the following Monday, 23rd, a week later than I should have done. Then I go out to get some much needed air and culture, at Dorkbot in Limehouse. Dorkbot is an event run by a friend of mine, it's great and you can read about it here. Another friend of mine, Nat, is speaking that night, and because of this combination of people I know, there are lots more people I know there, many of whom I've barely seen since moving to London. It's wonderful. I inhale two Boots reduced price meal-deal sandwiches while Nat does her talk and it occurs to me that maybe I've not been taking very good care of myself over the last couple of weeks?
Me and my friend George get the DLR home together (front seat, yes mate, lads lads lads), and talk about what's next for both of us. We're both a little bit in freefall. I think about it more as I walk home from the train station. The last couple of weeks, (months? years?) have all been a particular kind of freefalling. I don't know what I'm doing. But I finally feel excited, not scared, in most respects, despite the stress of the last couple of weeks (and the election result, which is obviously awful but has weirdly steeled me to try and take action in a number of areas, which I hope I can actually follow through on).
Fucking hell though, everything's a lot.
I take Charlie for his final bandage change on Saturday morning. The vet is delighted with his progress, and we’re able to remove the bandage entirely as the wound has totally closed up, which feels unnerving, but takes away the constant stress of having to keep it dry. We’ll still never know what caused the wound originally… a tiny seed? A bit of glass? But the tests came back and it seems that somehow it got infected with a particularly nasty streptococcus something, which rapidly spread into his bloodstream, as well as causing the weird flesh decay directly around the wound. Luckily, £1000+ of veterinary care saw it all off, and apart from a slight limp and a bad case of cabin fever, he’s mostly back to his old self.
I deal with that cabin fever by immediately loading him onto a train up to Yorkshire. The vet goes so well we're able to get an earlier train than expected, which means we get to Hebden bridge earlier than planned. I had not wanted to return there at all. It is, at this point, a place of dark memories and great unhappiness for me, which, for now, I have no desire to return to. The previous plan had been that Beck would take him up there with her when she was visiting me the previous week, but obviously that wasnt viable at the time, so I need to bring him up directly. While I'm away he's staying with a combination of Beck and our favourite old neighbour Caroline, who used to walk him regularly when I lived up there. Caroline isn't home until the evening, so with some trepidation, I text Ava. We have not communicated at all in the months since I left. I am pretty certain they loathe me and don't wish to hear from me at all, and although I still have a lot of fondness for them, having to contact them fills me with dread, because talking to someone who hates you is no fun. But apparently the only thing I dread more than texting them is being stuck in Hebden Bridge for a few hours, so I text them and ask if they'd like to look after Charlie for a few hours, which, kindly, if curtly, they agree to (they loved Charlie and it's a heartbreak for both of us that they barely get to see him any more).
We politely do the Charlie exchange with as limited conversation as possible (I try not to get too emotional saying goodbye to him — after the incredibly stressful couple of weeks we've had together, lots of me carrying him, us curled up napping together, me willing him better), it feels like a particularly painful time to say goodbye to him, but I can't throw away this long-planned, month-long (well, 3 weeks now) trip to the US when he is at this point, technically, entirely fine.
I then get on a train to York where I go and stay with Justin and Dav in their new home, and it is exactly the comforting welcome I needed. Lots of sweet catchups and delicious food and a nice little late-night walk around the city where the two of them excitedly regale me with facts about their lovely new home city.
The following morning we do a cute Christmas gift swap, have a walk along the city walls, and then I get the train straight back down to London again, because...
IT’S TIME TO FLY!
I hate flying.
I do quite like airports though. I enjoy that bit. And for no apparent reason, I get an upgrade?! Which is nice. I watch half a bad movie and two okay ones. The food is not awful. I pee a lot, as I always do, for no good reason. I have a vom trauma when I go to use the toilet and one of the stewardesses stops me and says ‘oh, don’t use that one, someone’s thrown up in there, it’s floor to ceiling’ and I experience THE HORROR and spend the rest of the flight terrified about the puke particles circulating in the air conditioning system.
We land mercifully smoothly in Boston and I treat myself to a taxi over to Deb's. She has some friends round but I sit myself quietly, exhaustedly in a corner and she places a plate of crackers and houmous in front of me, which I rapidly consume, and then fall asleep.
AMERICAAA!
And then, somehow, it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m incredibly jet lagged. I go to Wholefoods and spend a fortune. I feel hungry and sleepy at all the wrong times.
(Aside, these latter few visual diaries are slightly poor quality because I don’t have access to a scanner here so they’re photographed instead)
On Christmas Day I walk through the icy cold to nearby Quaker Church in Cambridge. It is peaceful and welcoming and I am glad I went. I cook myself a rudimentary but good Christmas dinner. I have another stroll around the neighbourhood. I have loads of snacks for dinner as is traditional. I feel very contented, and realise that I am actually calm for the first time in… months?!
Oh, but you know what happens when you become calm after a prolonged period of stress? That’s right, YOU GET SICK! I have a grim cold but I force myself out to a nice art supplies shop to buy myself some festive treats, and get to ride on a tram. Yessss
I’m sick so I mostly just stay in and eat loads of foods. I only leave the house to go to Burger King and try one of their vegan impossible burgers, and it is [chef’s kiss]
I’m still sick but I love riding the T, so I get the train down to a random beach on the red line. I love beaches. I especially enjoy a beach on the other side of the ocean. On the way home I buy some nice stationery, and then write letters to several of my favs. I eat more delicious food. I am eating a LOT. I am also texting a lot. I feel very far from alone, even though I am entirely alone (apart from Zoe and Leroy, my cat charges). It's very satisfying.
I still have a bit of a cold though, but worse, my old back pain is flaring up for no apparent reason. Usually it happens because of one specific trigger, but this time that’s not clear. I wonder if it’s different mattress? Or sitting on the sofa too much? Or maybe I did do something specific, I just didn’t notice at the time? (I'm surprised it didn't happen with all the awkward Charlie carrying I had to do the last couple of weeks) Either way ugh. Feel entirely gross but I go into downtown Boston and buy myself some ultra warm trousers that make me look a bit like a sexy hiking mom. Into it.
It’s raining. Counter intuitively, I force myself to go for a run, my first since before Charlie hurt himself at the start of December. To my great happiness, I can still run for 25 min uninterrupted (which was the place I’d got to in my training before I stopped). It even seems to slightly ease my back pain. I celebrate by going to the H-Mart Korean supermarket and buying loads of treats.
I’m feeling very contented. I wake when I want to wake. I work a little each day. Just enough to keep on top of my freelance commitments. I take care of the cats needs. I cook myself delicious, varied, weird meals. I treat myself to whatever I want. I text friends a lot. Is this an actual holiday? Am I actually doing that thing?
I can’t escape the sense that I’m not doing enough (even though I have made sure I get out every day, they’ve not been big adventures). I take a long walk around the harbour areas of Downtown Boston today, and when I get cold, I go into the aquarium. I forget that I hate big animals in aquariums, and the sea lions and penguins make me sad. But I spend ages staring into the tanks of anemones and small tropical fish. I put my headphones on to drown out the sound of screaming children and tired parents and listen to lovely music. I am again overwhelmed by a sense of freedom and peace.
In 2019 I got out of a bad relationship that had, slowly, pervasively, been crushing me. Causing me to lose all of my sense of self. Forced me into all kinds of damaging patterns of thought. It wasn’t all bad, those seven years. In fact much of it was wonderful. That’s what made it so hard to leave. But I did leave. This year I left that relationship and I left the place I tried to call home that never really felt like home.
And now here I am, on the other side of the world again, watching the vibrantly coloured fronds of the anemones softly waft. This time not running away from my problems like previous trips. This time I’m looking forwards to going home in a couple of weeks.
I hope this trip continues the process of resting and resetting and self-care that I so dearly needed, and somehow haven't been able to provide myself without a large amount of distance.
I feel very lucky to have made it this far.
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