Tuesday, 9 August 2011

I have no one to tell me the correct way to respond to the riots in London and be bang on, absolutely right in every part. I miss my wise, funny, clever wife.

Tori sends me photographs of Kelly that I have never seen before. She looks young and strong and gorgeous in a toga with a laurel wreath or on the basalt steps of the Giant's Causeway with a paper cup in hand. She looks as if nothing could ever hurt her. Misleading.

Finally managed to ring MacMillan CAB and the bank after putting it off for a fortnight. Oddly the bank were the more helpful of the two, though both offered to send me out forms. I love forms. If there's anything likely to provoke my tears it's detailing the precarious financial situation you shared with your wife over the phone to a stranger. I'll be a week chiselling the baked-on snot from the phone. The bank lady was crying by the end of the call as well. I don't know whether that's professional or un-professional but it did make me feel better.

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