Sunday

You must be used, now, I hope, I expect – you’re obviously on-the-ball – to the mood swings which go with Living with Legion. Despair, hope, despair, hope... usually ending with despair, but hey, it’s Sunday; let’s look on the bright side.

I’ve also mentioned maternal instinct. Stop me if I’ve told you this before – I was telling somebody the other day, but I don’t think it was this blog – about the birth of Serena’s baby. Classic case in point.

Christian (son-in-law: keep up! what was I saying about being on-the-ball?) rang, a Friday night it was.

We’ve been delivered of a large boy.

Now, at this point, the conventional thing is to open the bubbly and ring all your friends and hang out the bunting and find yourself several inches taller. (Shaun said he woke two inches taller the morning Serena was born, so if our vine keeps sprouting presumably eventually his head will hit the ceiling.)

Instead of which, I was plunged into despair. More accurately, depression, not a word I often use: negative associations in this household, and all. This once, it does the trick.

Couldn’t remember when I’d felt so miserable. And ashamed with it, of course. Because it’s not how you’re supposed to feel.

My cousin and bestie, Fleur, said, It’s because it’s such a tectonic life-change: you’ll get used to it. She didn’t quite say, you’re such a selfish bitch that instead of joining in your daughter’s joy you are now feeling old, because she’s very kind and loving, is Fleur. But I’m not quite so dumb I can’t interpret.

So there we were, or I was: gloomy, guilty and dejected.

All night long and into the next morning.

Know what? That euphemistically “large boy” (9 lbs 5 oz) nearly killed my daughter. (She says he didn’t. Just, without modern medicine her health and lifestyle would have been very seriously compromised for the rest of her life. Humph.) Didn’t know until half way through Saturday that, after being delivered at home, she was rushed into hospital. Twice, eventually.

No wonder I was mis. And not guilty at all, m’lud. Loving, caring mother. So you can shove that accusation in your e-pipe and pretentiously puff it.

Serena, of course, sensible scientist she is, poo-poohed my sixth sense. Telepathy? Humbug! You could tell something was wrong because all the signs were wrong. You would normally have expected me to ring and tell you all about it.

That’s ok. I don’t mind having my magic explained to me.

One day some clever scientist geek – and his team: that’s how scientists do these things; chummy lot – will pin the Nobel on his lapel or whatever one does to Nobels (turned mine down before Mr Nobel had the bother of offering) telling us how it is that your dog knows, before you do, that you’ve decided this is the last drink and you’re going home now.

And tells the whole neighbourhood.

The point is this is what maternal (or indeed canine) instinct is. Knowing gubbins no one else knows, even if you don’t know how.

Remember I said a week ago that, for some mysterious reason, when Bink walked out of her treatment centre and burnt her bridges behind her, I slept like a log?

In the wretched days afterwards I thought, how dangerous this is, this blogging business: writing about it as you go along. What a prat have I felt since, deep in the dumps as I have been.

No future, no plans, no treatment centre to go back to. Looking pretty dismal, it has been.

Well there is still no future, no plan, and it’s scary stuff, this. Bink could easily slip back into the abyss from where she is now.

But as she bought me supper last night – YAY! I have been allowed to see Bink for the first time since Christmas! Of which more tomorrow: this post is quite long enough – she explained to me:

I was so desperate. I had to do it. It wasn’t easy: finding the courage and energy to leave. But it was that, or sink into a place where killing myself was the only course left.

And, um, I think I know the answer to this Bink, obvious question really, but why didn’t you tell them?

They wouldn’t have let me leave. They had me virtually on one-to-one: someone following me around all the time.

Ok, I get that. And thought as much. But why didn’t you tell us? Would have saved a great deal of nuisance and time and worry. And incidentally, since you ask, yes, I was very fed up with you indeed the next day: refusing to answer my calls. Read my face: serious annoyance. But anyway...

Um... she said. I’m not quite sure.

And she put on that quizzical so Binkish face, which makes you want to kick and hug her both. But quite a lot more of the latter.

I think perhaps it just didn’t occur to me... Maybe...?

(And then, just to be cruel and serve her right, I showed her the video Priti had sent me, postage stamp size on my telephone, of her card and cake and choccies and flowers, delivered on her birthday… and she said, Oh! If only I’d left an hour later: I would have got it all!

Five minutes later, I said. Priti arrived as you left.

Oh, she said. I’m so sorry!

Good. That’s that then. Not that we’re quits: not by a long way. But anyway.)