Signs of our times

Graffiti spotted when walking back to a carpark yesterday.

No blogging yesterday; an adminny morning spent rounding up Goway and delivering him to the cattery, double checking particularities with the builders, and then a not unpleasant and thankfully short but somewhat stressful meeting in the middle of the day.

Back to the hospice for girlie cuddles and the almighty ego boost which comes from a Little Fish every time I see her after disappearing for a couple of hours. Full house this week; not all the bedrooms are in use but families staying in all the flats and doubling up in at least one of them. So a chance to talk to each other. There's a shorthand between hospice parents; lines like "oh and then when my oldest son died we..." don't prove to be shocking conversation stoppers; we've all either faced it ourselves or live with the possibility/probability of dealing with it one day. So as younger siblings zoomed around pushing older sisters' wheelchairs like racing cars, and as carers and nurses dodged around avoiding injury, we mothers sat and chatted, about the things parents talk about. Schools, clothing, recipes, polite negotiations about the last doughnut, nursing care, physio, learning and deterioration, relatives and how to avoid them, the outrageous things people say. Life on a plate with a side order of special needs.

Tia