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one step forward, two steps backward

Well, the trip to Morecambe is cancelled. I had an inkling that was going to happen. Apparently Jimmy is in a bit of a spin about last week’s events in Brighton plus they have decided that no one is to film Sham 69 until further notice. What with Punk being officially thirty years old next year – around 20 Sept to be exact – there is a lot of media interest in talking to and tracking down ‘the originators’ of punk. I’m not surprised. What I am worried about is that I gaily sent off my programme proposal to at least three broadcasters a while back. Normally, they get back fairly quickly – when they don’t you have to worry – there’s a lot of pinching ideas in tv land and there is absolutely nothing or very little you can do about it. Jimmy and management were also worried about who else I was planning to interview. Thankfully, they didn’t object to my current list which was a relief. I’m going to carry on regardless of what other people might be doing and try and get my doc made if I can.

What else? All this seems to have been over-shadowed by the fact that I am struggling a bit with realising Abbie’s death has finally hit home – and it has come from nowhere. Awful. I didn’t know what grief or bereavement can do to you and they have a funny habit of popping up when you are least expecting them to. At it’s worst I’ve been snappy and intolerant of people either not listening to me properly or being too loud. And I have been so incredibly tired. I haven’t been this tired since I was a teenager. And at it’s best, I’ve been able to listen to an answer machine message from Abbie on my machine (which I know I probably should erase but can’t for the moment) and last week I found the last letter she ever wrote to me. I could listen to the message and read the letter without my eyes uncontrollably brimming up and the feeling of a horrible tightness in my chest. Both the brimming up and tightness in my chest only seem to appear when I’m doing something mundane like driving or walking along a street. Crazy.

My dreams have been really un-nerving too. For a few days last week I kept having a recurring dream of Abbie standing about 10 foot away from me with her arms out-stretched, smiling – as a mother does when beckoning a child to run into her arms. This image stayed with me on and off in the day, like a flashback and I felt quite haunted by it. I then developed a sudden bout of anxiety. I nearly drove all the way across London last week when it was halving the journey time to go by train. Each time I thought about the train journey I kept thinking something bad was going to happen. Silly, obsessive worrying. I even had a panic as I dropped my son off at nursery thinking albeit irrationally that it was the last time I was going to see him and he would never know and when no one picked him up at the end of the day blah blah blah. It took every ounce of human effort to force my self to stop thinking such ridiculous thoughts and get on the bloody train which was fine. And yes I got back in time to pick up my son and life carries on…..I guess that is the point – life carries on! I think the whole dilemma, issue of acceptance and ‘moving on’ must throw your head out a bit. All this weirdness – as I can assure you I really am not mad although last week I was very worried that I was (!) must be to do with being at that stage just before acceptance. A combination of hanging on and things finally bubbling up to the surface. I guess it just takes time.

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