Raining. The Willow Foundation cheque arrives special delivery (I nearly missed it as the doorbell still doesn't work). It is about £150 short. The reason of course is not the Willow who have been exemplary throughout but the hapless Marcella, manager, apparently, of Litro. First she cannot grasp the concept of a third party wishing to pay for the party, then she insists she cannot provide an invoice and we will pay in cash, in advance. Then when the Willow take control of the situation she decides quote them the costing without VAT and service and finally decides that she can invoice them and includes the service and VAT. Quite an effort.
The Willow have pledged to make up the difference and I've been to the bank to cash in the cheques. It's a rotten day; pissy and raining. Tomorrow should be better but it will only be better if Kelly can enjoy it. She's very sick. Her stomach has been aching for two days and Vida and Kate, our two live in medical professionals, are wondering whether it might be her appendix. Kelly is plumping for constipation and is necking the warm prune juice for all she's worth. She has a doctor's appointment at four (it's not the doctor's appointment - it's hers!*). It would be ironic if after all she has been through she now dies of appendicitus. She's been in bed for most of the day and I'm praying she'll be well enough to go tomorrow. It really isn't fair.
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The doctor advises her to go to A & E. We go to A & E. We are there for 8 hours. They do blood tests and further chest x- rays and at one in the morning they finally admit her with a canulla in her foot because they can't find a vein and nobody in the world knows how to work the porta-cath she has had surgically embedded in her chest. So that was a good idea. They don't think it's her appendix just the tumors on her liver and codeine keeps the sting away. She should be able to attend the party but not in the capacity she probably wishes to. Fuck sake.
*I'll nick lines from Terry's Chocolate Orange adverts. Oh yes!