It was a long and stressful weekend. I paid my father a visit on Friday, only to find him so poorly, we had to dash to A&E. To cut a long story short, there were two hospital trips, a visit from the emergency doctor at 4am and finally an admittance to the urology ward yesterday evening.

Stressed is an understatement and while my sister sensibly did one of Marion’s conscious resting audios to soothe her psyche at midnight while my dad was fitful upstairs, I shovelled a family-sized bag of sweet popcorn into my gob. It’s all very well saying I will swerve sugar and carbs from now on, but when the pressure is on, there is nothing like a sweet, starchy hit.

It’s 5am now and I am at Gatwick airport about to fly to Belfast for a job. It’s a journalism gig with the crowd I used to work with before most of my work dried up, so I am really looking forward to it.

I hate flying, but I have found it a little easier since I embarked up on this spiritual path. If my number is up, it’s up and if it isn’t, then I trust I will be looked after.

We’re going to be spending some time on a Belfast beach, which I am assuming will be blustery. Right now, there’s nothing I’d like more than a glimpse of the sea, so this trip has come at just the right time.

I can rest today, safe in the knowledge that my dad is being well looked after. I never cease to be amazed by the sheer bloody wonderfulness of NHS Staff. The team we saw at the weekend were all incredibly young, yet they showed my elderly father such respect and compassion. They really are angels and I can’t thank them enough right now.

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