So.  Counselling.  Bereavement support. Therapy.  Call it what you will.  I’ve been twice now as it was one of the death bed promises Linda extracted from me.  Mind you, it was the death bed promise not the counselling that just made Saturday night at Seafield a near death experience.

I’ve always had a low opinion of this whole area despite (or because) I’ve worked in a few touchy-feely environments over the years. Now I understand why Linda wanted me to go.  She didn’t want me sitting there 7 days a week with nothing to do, nowhere to go and no-one to talk to.  So she vetted them while she was in the hospice and picked one out for after her death.

And she’s very nice.  But so far her solutions are i) get a hobby and join a group of fellow hobbyists and ii) write a book about all the nutters and jakeys who begat me.  Yup.  That’s what you go and get counselling qualifications for.  She seems to have missed the fact that I was only ever good at two things.  1) loving Mrs H with every fibre of my being and 2) drinking every bastard under the table and going brawling.

Now one of those things is gone forever and Mrs H also made me promise not to start drinking again.  But, yes, take up needlepoint and write a book about every other dead person I’ve known over the years.  That’ll banish the horror that is waking up every day.

Will I go back?  Probably.  I may as well get my money’s worth and at least it’s one day a month I get out of bed.