Well we made it! Of course, what else was going to happen, I know, but I was so scared and now I don't really know why. I am writing this sat on my camp bed, in ED's new room, next to her, still snoring after a demanding day for her yesterday.

Bloke drove us up there, which was ghastly - he's the same age as me, almost 62, but still carries on like a fucking boy racer, driving more slowly because of my ludicrous anxiety, with the whiff of burning martyr filling the air. But we made it. YD was clearly quite sad to be saying goodbye to the people she'd lived with for two and a half years, which was quite positive in my eyes, as it shows she definitely is still in there, feeling appropriate feelings and not just off inside her own head.

Packing her stuff - Jesus, where did all this come from? You've never seen so many shapeless garments in nasty cheap fabrics, but we bunged it all in, then wodged it all around her in the van. Three bin liners of bloody teddy bears. Three!! FFS.

The drive down to the coast was long and grim, with me sat in the back, squashed into a tiny space and having to lean backwards to hold ED's hand as her new wheelchair is much longer so she's further back. When we came to the town she was born in, where Sis still lives, just ten minutes from here, I started describing where we were, "Just passing the Swiss (pub), and the railway arches where your dad used to work. Going over the river - tide's out, lots of little boats marooned on the mud flats..." and she laughed and laughed - brilliant it was.

I can't quite think of the right words to describe the new place. Challenging perhaps, as well as friendly and homely and all those good things. It does look much more home-like and much less a cross between a hospital and a hotel, but some of the residents are a bit scary when you first meet them, especially when you're knackered and over-wrought. There's one who rocks her wheelchair back and forth with great strength so the wheels come right off the floor, while cackling with (admittedly)quite joyful laughter. Several staff have told me it freaked them out to start with but now they're used to it - the girl does look happy and no one's interfering with her, so it is a good thing but very alarming. Another has elephantisis (I think) with a large, oddly shaped head and a tiny, skinny body, in a wheelchair which she moves herself in very speedily, rushing up to people, including me, talking too fast for me to understand. She holds her arms out for cuddles, which everyone responds well to, (apart from when they're in the middle of something), describing her as 'adorable'. I know I'll get used to it, but it's hard now. Hard too to accept that this is the place for my girl, that these are her people.

YD came and helped unpack and start making the room nice, then I took ED to the beach, via the chippy. It was about half eight by then, cloudy and windy and exhilarating. We sat on the prom, me eating fish and chips, surrounded by the bastard seagulls, squawking and diving and trying to steal my chips. ED loved it, loved us just walking out of her room and being on the beach in five minutes.

There are issues going on with her catheter and stuff - this lot seem much more on it than the others, thank fuck. Now they're here to get her dressed and we're going to walk into town to buy Grandson a birthday present. He's with his dad till Saturday then we're having a family do on Sunday, WHICH ED CAN COME TO!! And that's what it's all about. Woo hoo!

I am grateful for: you guys helping me through the hard times; having my daughter close by; the home painting her room pink - yuck, but she loves it; all this for free on the NHS; my comfy camp bed.

laters xx