Quicketty quick entry as I am having an early night, bed by ten, but can't bear to keep not writing. Nothing much to report, mind, just endless faffing about with daughter's flat, trying to get it ready for H's return on Monday. Ready meaning nothing that needs urgent attention that will require more energy/stamina than he has available to him. So we've left the gloss paint to do round the skirting boards - it sounds bloody patronising when I write it out, but what can be done?

Grandson is struggling, the reality of his mother's decline having somehow worked its way to the surface. YD has been amazing with him, so patient but determined and resourceful, finding new ways to coax something out of him, refusing to leave him alone and miserable. I haven't got it in me. It's all I can do to hold back howls of sorrow at the state of him, the injustice of it all, and as is my wont, I freeze. Freezing doesn't get mentioned enough as a panic response, it's always about the fight or flight responses, but there's also freeze. Brain empties, body becomes immobile, jaw slack. A good look, I think we can agree.

Tomorrow we're going to see ED. I wonder if not seeing her makes it worse for GS, like it does for me. If I go longer than two weeks I ache for her, imagining all sorts of worse things than the actuality. Because by and large she's cheerful.

I am grateful for: the fucking flat being done, or my part in it, at any rate - it's been really too much, yet I couldn't leave her to do it alone and now it's done, thank fuck; Bloke driving me up there tomorrow; Son watching the rugby (yawn) downstairs; having a spare bed for him at last, so I don't have to fuck about looking for quilts and stuff and him moaning about his back (more yawn); in bed before ten, if I'm quick with one last fag...

Night night, sleep tight