Black spots

A bad week for these. The cleaners at my work, Fred and Liz, have each had family black spots. Fred's sister died suddenly on Tuesday, and Liz's dad is in the Western being slowly poisoned by liver failure. The man hadn't smoked or drank alcohol in 14 years, but (in Liz's phraseology) was found to be 'riddled' with tumours in his lung, kidney, stomach, bone and gullet. He received the diagnosis on his 54th wedding anniversary. What can you say except sorry, and to mention the wonderful humanitarian gifts offered by the Marie Curie hospice service.

Peter Ballocks was told on Monday his gullet cancer hasn't responded to chemo, and he has ~2 months. They offered to insert a stent to allow him to (gradually) become accustomed to eating solid food again, but he refused this. "What's the point?", he said. H. etc brought Reekie back to Edinburgh the next day, to spare the dug from his dad's externalised rage. She's back down in the Borders again now, absorbing the flak as she always has. I'll go down next weekend so The Ballocks can be angry at me too, and maybe if he's ready, try to soothe him. Whatever he needs to achieve ease. He often feels cornered by words, so I'll take him Casal's Bach cello concertos; he loves classical music.