Can you go blind from looking at the sun?

Something happened to my family a month ago which I truly thought was the worst thing to ever happen to me. And then I came home last week to find a dead body. Yup, things really can get worse. I guess you could call this my annus horribilis, and we’re not even three quarters into it.

As you might imagine, the last few days have been up and down. Up: basking in the wonderful memories of our beloved Bev, my nanny when I was a kid and, yes, it turns out, my nanny as an adult too. Down: being catatonic in Gails, the newly opened wanky coffee shop in Marlborough and attacking the poor delivery guy, who then sent me one of the nicest messages of condolence I’ve ever received, after I sent him a string of unhinged apologies.

Generally speaking, we’ve been getting through it. Telling my kids that their primary caregiver had gone to Bevan - a place where she’s got Cool Lime Refresher on tap - weirdly wasn’t something I’d ever planned, but it’s a testament to how Bev raised them, with the utmost love and care, that they are still standing. It reminded me of when my mum told my sisters and I that our father had died, I would have been around the same age as Reuben. The only difference being back then we still had Bev.

By the weekend, the mood had shifted as we visited Tom’s family in Shropshire - a much needed distraction. We (they) went camping and staged a big dance party around a smoke machine in lieu of a live fire. I tried to weaponise my sadness by pestering the DJ with a stream of annoying song requests. “I’m grieving!” I shouted over the acid house, before telling his mum and threatening to call his girlfriend. “I’m grooving,” he replied, although later he acquiesced.

Coming back to London, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me again, a feeling that was mitigated once I threw myself back into all things interior design. Do we want the culturally dubious tented opium den in the basement to be more boudoir or bedouin? Hmm, methinks bedouin.

Fast-forward to Thursday and we were off on our family holiday to Bridgehampton which Bev was really looking forward to before a much-needed holiday of her own. Luckily we had room in our case for her sandals, so at least she got to set foot on American soil once more.

After several alarms and reminders not just to bring the pram and potty with us but to collect them both from the carousel, plus four whole suitcases, on the other side, we got there in one piece. Bev, I hope you’d be proud!

The moon mog the sun during the solar eclipse, which I wish i hadn’t stared at directly because now im paranoid im going to go blind. Wasn’t that what the colander was for?

NB. Google searches for ‘hurt eyes’ went up by 500% on Thursday.

Stories of some of the grizzliest people I know getting absolutely wrecked in Ibiza and felt relieved I wasn’t there. Seeing the sunrise with a bunch of rent-a-celebs and Golborne Road gremlins is not really what I need right now.

Now that I no longer have Bev around, it’s time to finally start acting like an adult, something I shall be navigating sartorially by way of archival Prada. Sombre, sober, and even a little bit fugly, so much so that it actually becomes sexy and perverse. I don’t know why, but i even see this 1998 autumn/winter silk dress with plastic fluting somehow getting me into the kitchen.

A poem that my friend sent me by a man called Heinrich Heine, which sounds like a cross between a nazi war criminal and the punch line to an unfunny knock-knock joke. It goes: Death does not separate; death unites. Life separates.

Spent a week wallowing in misery and guilt. Punted a boat. Ate some wild blackberries. Visited a castle. Wore Bev’s dressing gown and watch. Made a shrine. Joked with Tom about having another baby, unclear if either of us were being serious. Tried a flat-packed croissant which was banging, and appreciated the importance of family.

On Wednesday night, I had the life sucked out of me by a fucking British mosquito, which I didn't even know was a thing. I thought they were all living it up in the Schengen area, gorging themselves on a bunch of pilled-up Euros? Isn’t this what Brexit was for? I can only hope that, as it deep-throated my haemoglobin, it got alcohol poisoning, shrivelled up and died.

Whenever someone dies, people love to give each other food. Something to comfort the soul and inflame the gut. Most of which this week has been brownies. Welcome to my big fat wheaty summer. A period of glutinous maximus as I numb myself in sweet, sugary grief.

“Are we blasting off yet?” Phoenix

Can you go blind from looking at the sun?

Will the blondie ever compare to the brownie?

Does Bev know how much we loved her?