I won’t ever eat the fish
Will I feel dead inside when we get there? Or will I just feel sick? It’s not helpful – or safe – to be shaking as I drive, but I can’t help it.
I should have known that it would rain today. Nearly the whole of the month has been and gone, with barely a spatter of a raindrop. But today, when I have to – need to – make the journey, a constant stream gushes down the windscreen. I squint through the arc-shaped streaks the window wipers are making, sitting hunched up in the front with the steering wheel resting on my thighs so the girls have the extra leg room, especially Amy. Her legs have grown into broomsticks. They feel as if they’ve snapped in the middle, and are trying to spike their bony splinters into my back through the layers of material and padding in the
