Shocked

Had a lovely day down at my Mum's yesterday, all sunshine and Spring blossom, which was great.

Arrived home at about 9pm-ish to be greeted by Mr Withay looking very sombre.

When I asked what was the matter, he told me about this:

This



Charlie was a friend of ours, and a former neighbour. He ran a little but very successful business doing fine art restoration and picture framing. Most of the pictures on the walls in our house were framed by him. He would usually refuse to take money for the work, so we traded him venison sausages.

He only moved out to the Philippines a few months ago and was loving his new life.

He came into the pub a few weeks back on a visit to the UK, and looked like a new man - slimmer, browner, happier.

He was telling us all about his home in Bohol, how he was going scuba diving several times a week, how he'd just bought a new "tractor" - an ox of some sort - to help him with the work on his land, how he was zipping around on a little motorbike with his friends and neighbours all piled on the back.


I can't believe this has happened.

Arse

I phoned my lovely Mum earlier as it's been too long since I last spoke to her. She's not too well, which is a worry, and sounded very low which is not like her. We cheered each other up though, which is what Mums and eldest (and favourite*) daughters are for.

It doesn't help that she's worried sick about my (soon to be ex) brother-in-law's increasingly unpleasant behaviour.

Aah, families.

I used to have horrible dreams years ago when Middle Sis was in the police in Brighton. She was attacked a few times in the course of her duties; I can still remember the sick feeling I got whenever Brighton was on the news....what's happened? Is she involved? Is she alright?

Anyway. After one of these attacks, I began having a recurring dream where I would go to the house of the man who attacked her (not that I ever knew who it was), and shoot him in the belly with a 12-bore, much in the stylee of Val Kilmer's Doc Holliday, walking away and leaving him dying in the doorway.

He always wore a grubby vest. No idea why.

The bloke, not Val Kilmer.

In my defence, I would then drive to Brighton nick and hand myself and the gun in. Law-abiding, even in sleep.

Well, apart from murdering people.

This was almost 20 years ago and I still remember the dream. It's scary when you realise how much goes on in your head when you're asleep.

On a more cheerful note, I have emailed my presentation to my boss. Hopefully he'll be pleased.

*in my head