With Dad, taking him for his second cataract operation. I am uneasy around him, knowing what I’ve written and included in Diary. I do feel anger at him, but more at how he was than how he is. I suppose I feel anger at his anger. When he was most terrifying to me, as a small boy, was when he was angry. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but when he did it it occasionally hurt and often damaged. Damage to trust, love. But now he is mild, accepting. He’s been through humbling hospital treatments and had his furious heart unclogged. When I’m away from home (London) and especially when I’m in Bedford (Bedford even more than Ampthill) I feel glad the way my life has gone. I am relieved I managed to move away, and to first say I wanted to be a writer and then to prove that I had become a writer. So many people don’t get to return, because they never left. Bedford seemed a bit lighter – big empty shops but a few hopeful small ones.
The Diary entry for today went out as I was buying pizza in Waitrose. These micro-publications still feel nervy. I imagine I’ve typed something obscene, or left an offensive typo. When I’m able, I sneak back in and check. This weekend I need to load up a stack more – do the whole of February, perhaps. The share figures are low. Almost no-one is forwarding the emails. But there are still bits of action on Twitter. It’s anything but a phenom. Every day is the chance of a bigger reaction, or a growing indifference.