Foetal Attraction.

It's been a week since she died. It's another two until the funeral. It seems an immensity of time since I last saw her, hidden behind curtains on a busy ward: dead, and surrounded by the noisy living. I was at home in Basingstoke from the Monday she died to the Thursday. 

Since I've been back in Belfast I've been lying on a sofa. I've been drinking two or three bottles of wine a day. I didn't wash or shave. I've only dressed in order to go back to the Off Licence. I've watched a lot of old Dr Who DVDs and I've eaten very little. Everything I've written here I've written from the couch. Which sounds like a Tears for Fears album. I've not slept much. However, I needed to do it. As pathetic as it is - this is how I process grief. I've indulged myself. I've wallowed in my own crapulence. I've been drunk for a week. 

I'm not doing it any more. Today I went for a long walk in the spitting rain, and when I got in I had a bath and a shave. I'm surprised to report that beneath the matted hair and the week old beard, I remain presentable. I have things to do. I have work to do. I have films to write. I have films to edit. I have a eulogy to complete. 

I like being clean. I feel sharper. I might be of some use. 

I'm watching The Deadly Assassin and drinking a bottle of Moillard Bourgogne Gamay. But at least I've shaved. Tomorrow I will be useful.