Here is a fact: yesterday, Legoland was closed due to drainage problems. And here is an opinion: that'd be bad, but yesterday was good anyway, because Kew gardens is.

And here is an aside: I was happy.

And here is something else: I very almost decided to stop blogging yesterday.

Here is an explanation: I found myself typing "I can't care, anyway: I blog and, well! Look at all those great poets, writing beautiful miserable angry things twenty years later; look at their greatly symbolic suicide attempts; look at their messed-up lives. They cared; they made monuments to their tragedies, in their poetry, and in the poetry of their day-to-day. They did it right, Saoirse, girl. Why do you get it so wrong? You are just an attention-seeking adolescent, and you know it. You really ought to shut up and try to actually feel something.", and feeling oh-so-very angry with myself on several hundred levels; guilty, too.

(Because this isn't what he wanted. But, really, what did he expect? That I could laugh it off? He's dead. Sha lalala lala la. Yeah. ((And I will never be lonely. Said I'm never gonna be, lone-ly.)) And what does it make me that I forget what he wanted? And what does it make me if I carry on?)

And a conclusion: I don't know whether I will be blogging. I may wait until I get this counselling, wait until I am not just pouring everything onto you, online, and then see if I can do it again. In any case, I am in Sicily on Friday, and I doubt I will have access to the internet there. Wait; we'll see, I suppose.

Nine months, by the way, in fifteen days; I like the analogy to pregnancy that can be found with tumours (Oh, you did not see his stomach swell.) I want to say, the birth is now, but no: the child is instead nine months old now. He may now be crawling; he may now realise he misses his parents when they leave the room and he may cry when they do so.

(I can't cry any more, did you know that?)