DEMENTIA CARE: OBITUARY. HINGMY.

Just couldn’t bring myself to write this one on the first of the month. Much-much-much-delayed blog post, for obvious reasons…
   The year 2020 would go down as the shittiest year so far, even without the Coronavirus, as the year 2020 is the year in which I am writing this obituary. She isn’t dead. That was the deal. Not the whole deal. The whole deal was better for everyone, and if we could stick to those better deals in life, hell, we would.
   Visits are arranged by text message. I set things up so that those visitors are expected, and seating is available the instant they walk in. Yes, I bring folding chairs out of neuks and crannies scattered around the room. There’s a woman coming in with mobility problems to see a woman with mobility problems. And she’s escorted by…
   I don’t know what to call her in this obituary. If I asked her, she’d say hingmy.
   Jist ca’ me hingmy, ah’ll ken ye mean me. Naw, ah wull. Jist yase that.
   There are countless memories. Laughter, mostly. Exaggerated use of the Scots in speech and in writing. Here are text messages, which chart our conversations, year on year, as I deal with dementia care. The conversation is folded away, as you’d fold a telescope. I’ve removed identifying details and the more obscure comments that only mean something to me.
   It is the story of someone dying from cancer. And it is a story of the deal we made. There was also the whole deal. I’ll talk about that just after these text messages…

(HINGMY): Happy Easter! X. Forward this little bunny to say Happy Easter 2 all your friends. XXXX <3

(HINGMY): WTF IS YER MAW’S MOBILE NUMMER?

(HINGMY): Haud oan. PMSL.

(HINGMY): Dae ye ken ah’ve no’ even goat hur nummer. Haha!

(HINGMY): Hiyaaaaaa! Did (my mother’s name) get her scan results back yet?

(ME): About 2 weeks yet.

(HINGMY): A’ right then. Ah will txt ye tae fin’ oot hur resultz.

(HINGMY): Hiyaaaaaa! Has (my mother’s name) results came through yet?

(ME): Rah morrah.

(HINGMY): OK. No probz.

(ME): Brain scan shows she has a brain. That is it. A new scan arranged in a month or so.

(HINGMY): That’s good confirmation that she has a brain. Here’s hoping it’s still there next time she goes.

(ME): Ah hope it’s still therrr an’ a’. Aye, an’ yuirs, tae.

(HINGMY): Did you send me an e-mail about addresses the other day for Christmas cards?

(ME): Aye.

(HINGMY): PMSL. OK. I’ll C whit addresses ah’ve goat when I get hame fae work.

(HINGMY): Slanjevar! (Approximate pronunciation of Slàinte Mhath, a toast to your good health.) Lang may yer lum reek. All the best for 2015 from…

(HINGMY): Mah mither is laughin’ et ye. A’ rah best, she says.

(HINGMY): It’s no’ hard, ho ho ho. Ur the twa o’ yez free oan Setterday teatim? Ah wiz gonnae bring mah mither uvver furra vizit.

(ME): Aye, bring her ower.

(HINGMY): Guid. Nae tother a ba’. See ya then.

(HINGMY): Hayaaaaaa! Huz (my mother’s name) still goat a brain? Did her results kumback yit?

(ME): February.

(HINGMY): OK. Hope you are both well. :)))

(HINGMY): Ah wiz up north at Banff at a log cabin when you sent your e-mail. So is she on medication? :))

(ME): Aye. Sweetex.

(HINGMY): Hi. Tried tae phone (my mother) and I got cut off and now it’s not even ringing. But it was just to see if it was OK to come over tomorrow after your dinner, whichever time that will be? …with mah mum?

(ME): Aye. Teatimm et fower o’ cloack.

(HINGMY): Right-oh. Ah don’t feenish till then, and by the time I get down an’ pick mah mum up it’ll be more like the backy 5, so that’s guid. C ya the morrah.

(HINGMY): Hiya, hope ye had a lovely Christmas and a nice new year. Love from…

(ME): Aye. Cannae get movin’ fur shoartbreid.

(HINGMY): That’s why ah didnae bring some uvver at Christmas for you. I remembered from last year you asked us if we wanted any cause you were eating it fur months. Haha. X.

(HINGMY): Thank you for the birthday card. :)) X.

(HINGMY): Hayaaaaaa. I was thinking of reuniting (names) tomorrow if that’s OK? I’ve not posted your card but I could pop it through the door if it’s not convenient. :)

(ME): Jist bring it ower rah morrah.

(HINGMY): Ah wull then. Ah’ll bring the aul’ yin tae. Whit time dae ye huv yer dinner et? I don’t feenish mah work till 4 so it’ll be nearer tae 5.30 – 6.00 before ah could get uvver.

(ME): One dines at four, when one’s butler sets out the silver.

(HINGMY): That’s grand. See ye rah morrah.

(HINGMY): Hiya. Running a wee bitty late. Not left the hoose to pick up my mum yet.

(ME): Ayyyyyyyyye.

(HINGMY): Jist bundling mah mither in the caur, then I’m leavin’. :))

(ME): In the boot?!

(HINGMY): Hi! Thanks for the card. It was very nice. :)) I’m going to give (your mother) a phone to thank her. XX.

(ME): She is in rah baff thu noo.

(HINGMY): Right-o! Is her phone no’ working?

(ME): It shid be. She disnae cairry it in rah baff, but.

(HINGMY): Sounded like it wiz in rah baff. O-eeeeeeee!

(ME): Jings.

(HINGMY): Hi. My mum and I were going to come over tomorrow if that’s OK. What time suits you?

(ME): Efter soup et wan, ur else efter tea et fower.

(HINGMY): Right then, we shall be uvver efter 4 or fower. XX.

(HINGMY): Thank you for your dairies. I read the 1^st few pages (after reading the back 1^st haha!) But I will read it later on. I’ve got a fight on my hand with a jeweller’s called (FUCKERS) at (BASTARD PLACE) so hubby is running me up so I can fire a few FUCKS into them. I’ve been fighting with them since (GOD WAS A PUP) about my wedding ring. Thanks again. I had a lot of chuckles so I’m sure when I read the rest my sides will be sore. XX.

(ME): Unloading a lot of dairies, taking in shopping. Diaries are on another shelf. ;)

(HINGMY): I didn’t get bored reading it all in-between making dinner and coffees as well as popping out for paint. So at 11.40 I was at the end and every page I sat down (my daughter) picked up to read. They were very good. We both cried with laughter about the chocolate button. She said she would like to follow your blog. It’s interesting from your perspective, having an insight into a carer’s life. Well done with all the adjustments you made in your

She’s referring to this extract from the dementia book…

   I moved the sofa and found a chocolate button unmolested on the carpet. Yes, I ate that chocolate button. How long had it been lying there? Fuck knows.
   Under cover of the internet, I Googled the preservative qualities of chocolate. Many days later, I am still alive to tell this tale. Moral? There isn’t one.
   I ate a chocolate button. Some of you will be shocked and repulsed to hear that. And to hear this…
   Tasty.

(HINGMY): :( Fuck, ran out of space. Your life. Go you. High five and all that. XX.

(ME): Blog. Antidote Trickling, by S.P. Tranent. Chocolate buttons never killed embdy.

(HINGMY): Neither did the spider. :)

(HINGMY): Or the yoghurt. :))

(ME): I chase a lot of spiders. Sometimes they chase me. You only worry when the yoghurt chases ye.

(HINGMY): Hi, how’s you and Auntie? I’ve had my op and they said I’m making an excellent recovery. I’m at home with my feet up. It’s driving me batty. I can’t lift anything heavier than a cup and my mobility is poor but I’m getting there every day. I was in Intensive Care for a couple of days but I was doing well enough to get a ward for 3 days and out on (daughter’s birthday.)

(ME): She is jist oot the bog. Ah’m huvvin’ a coffee. Nutritionist’s been. Diet is braw. Ah huv her oan prescripshun Victoria Sponge. At least yer huvvin’ a cuppa.

(HINGMY): A cuppa and Victoria Sponge???? I think I might send a request to ma Doc. :)) X.

(ME): Converted her to strawberry tea. If she goes aff strawberries, therrr’s nuthin’ tae eat or drink.

(HINGMY): I’m on mint tea cause I huvny farted or pooped in a week. Fek me it’ll be some mess and stench. You’ll smell it in town. :)) X.

(ME): Minty fresh, but.

(HINGMY): Pepperpoop!

(ME): As long as it doesn’t come oot minty green.

(HINGMY): You’ll never guess whit…ah FARTED. (Txt to all.) :/ X.

(ME): A minty fart? Well, it is After Eight.

(HINGMY): LOL. That’s guid. After 8. X.

(HINGMY): Hiyaaaaaa! Happy birthday to Auntie (bunch of typos)…I was going to bring my mum over if that’s okay about 5-6-ish. My mum gets her dinner about 4.45 so it would be after that. XX.

(ME): She is laughing. Aye, she says ye are tae come uvver.

(HINGMY): That’s great. I’ll pick me mum up and we will come uvver.

(HINGMY): Hayaaaaaa. I had an appointment after another CT scan and they say I’m disease-free. So…fingers crossed. How’s Auntie? And more to the point, how are you?

(ME): We roasted 2 hair-dryers, and I made things safer. New hair-dryer is OK. Caterpillar is now crawling up my leg. WTF.

(HINGMY): Random! Thought all the butterflies were dead. LOL. Glad to hear everything’s safe. Hair-dryer working. (My hair is 2-inch. I don’t need a hair-dryer.)

(ME): Sent the wee beastie oot. Guid news aff ye, by-rah-wey. Ah wiz pre-ok-ya-pied wi yon c4tRp1llR.

(HINGMY): Yes, good news. Poor caterpillar.

(ME): Aye. It’s cauld oot therrr.

(HINGMY): Might come roon’ the morra fur a wee hour as I’ve got appointment and mum to pick up and messages to get as well as mum’s message. Whit time will you be free?

(ME): Afternoon onward.

(HINGMY): No bother. I’ll let you know when we’re on our way.

(HINGMY): We’re on our way. Yipee.

(ME): Oooo. Fucking nearly typed MOOOO there.

(HINGMY):

(ME): My telephone did not understand.

(HINGMY): It was a picture of (ENTIRE CONVERSATION REMOVED TO PROTECT IDENTITIES)…he’z a braw chookie.

(ME): Ah thocht furra meenit yer phone wiz hacked an’ it wiz tryin’ tae gimme rah computer crabs.

(HINGMY): I don’t think yah get crabs from computers. I think it might be a virus.

(ME): You and your computer know-how. Ah wull check the lavvy seat fur Russian hackers.

(HINGMY): I’m gonnae huv tae get the doctor intae you.

(ME): We were in at the nurse yesterday. Routine tests. Results whenever.

(HINGMY): Yah can let me know how her tests are when yah get them.

(ME): Aye.

(HINGMY): A Photo/Video message was sent to you but couldn’t be delivered. A notification on how to view this message will follow shortly. Your password is (BLAH-DE-BAH)…

HINGMY: I’ve sent you a Photo/Video message. Go to (BLAH-DE-BLAH)…your message is valid for 7 days.

(ME): Even more like a Russian hacking site. Didn’t like my phone.

(HINGMY): Huz the Russians stole yur phone?

(ME): Someone else’s number comes up with that password.

(HINGMY: Whose number and is the password “Russian Hackers”? Do you no’ do WhatsApp? Or does your phone not accept pictures? I think you’ve lost me. Maybe.

(ME): Just draw a picture and post it. It’s quicker.

(HINGMY): I think I will. I’ll do that when I go home on Friday.

(HINGMY): Happy New Year to you both and lang may yer lum reek. XX.

(ME): Therrr’s nae chimney, but aye a’ richt rah noo.

(HINGMY): I haven’t got over to yours wi’ mah mum as we all had that bug and I ended up with an infection and pneumonia. We’re still all coughing. How’s you and aim to? (Auntie.) Did you get results back yet?

(ME): I aim a towel to her in the morn, tae dry her haunds. Tests upped her thyroid pills…that’s aboot it.

(HINGMY): I got your book.

(ME): Whit wan? That wan?

(HINGMY): Aye, that wan.

(HINGMY): Mah mother took a stuntman dive oot the door the other day. As she stepped out onto the step with a flying motion she threw her stick from 1 hand and her bag from the other simultaneously as she screamed ah…going into a dive motion as she moved like The Matrix in slow-motion twisting herself round onto the soft bit of grass, landing on her bum. Looking like The Dying Fly. Laugh, I nearly peed my pants. Ow…

(ME): Ah wull noo read that oot tae a wee wumman.

(HINGMY): Wur yah stinnin’ in the livin’-room daein’ a’ the actions tae auntie Wee Wumman so it wuz easyur fur her tae understand? LOL.

(ME): Ah dae yuir accent, hey.

(HINGMY): Hey.

(ME): Aye.

(HINGMY): Do you know when you wrote the bit about the chocolate button found when cleaning or moving furniture? When abouts was that? What date was it on? I mentioned it to (daughter) and she was looking for it but can’t find it in your blog papers you sent me.

(ME): 27^th February, 2015.

(HINGMY): So it is. LOL. Ta.

(HINGMY): Hi. Thank you for the card. Princess fur-a-day! I’ve bought a few games for dementia sufferers so we can play a game wi’ Auntie. What do you think? X.

(ME): As long as it isnae lawn croquet, she should be fine.

(HINGMY): Ach damn it. Only kind in. That’s good. I’m off my work on Monday and ma mum’s free. I’ll come over then if you’re free?

(ME): Consulted a wee wumman who says aye, come uvver.

(HINGMY): Great. I’ll let ye know what time on Monday.

(HINGMY): No’ unless there’s a time you don’t want us to come uvver.

(ME): Afternoon, 1.00 onwards…not before then.

(HINGMY): That’s ideal. OK, see ye Monday.

(HINGMY): Hi. What size is ma Auntie?

(HINGMY): Not her height.

(HINGMY): Like 8, 10, 12?

(ME): She’s wee. Dresses are medium. She cut labels off, so it is hard to say. I went for 12 or med. BUT she is very fussy and refuses to wear loads of stuff.

(HINGMY): Ah seen a nice nightie and dressing-gown. I think it’s nice ’n’ soft and airy. And she can cut the labels off it if she likes, LOL.

(ME): She has loads of nighties and dressing-gowns. Save your pennies.

(HINGMY): Nup. LOL. I got her a wee light cardy and 2 wee vest tops. I’m at the hospital on her birthday but I will probably come uvver on the Saturday if that’s okay.

(ME): OK.

(HINGMY): OK then. If you need me to bring anything uvver just give me a shout. X.

(HINGMY): Hi. How’s things going? Has Auntie been on any trips out? How have you been? X.

(ME): Inflamed hip. Super painkillers. Low mobility. Luckily, extra railings were put in yesterday.

(HINGMY): Ow dear. That’s good you have more rails in. How are you feeling? :)

(ME): Having coffee. It is fucking magic.

(HINGMY): It’s maybe what’s in it that’s magic. :))

(ME): Mr Kipling’s Slice helps.

(HINGMY): Food……..!

(HINGMY): Hi. How’s your mum’s hip now?

(ME): Varies. Was dancing with the carer today.

(HINGMY): You were? LOL. I know it was Auntie who was dancing.

(ME): Standing more than dancing. But that is an improvement.

(HINGMY): Yes, she was a bit shaky on her feet the other day. My mum has a 3-wheeled walker thing. It’s got brakes on it. She is walking round the quarry once a day, which is an improvement since you saw her last.

(HINGMY): I’ve got a wee bit of bad news. I had a scan. I’ve got a bit of cancer back. I’ve to start chemo on Monday. Six bouts of chemo, four weeks apart with a scan in the middle. What do you make of CBD oil? LOL.

(ME): That’s nae guid fur shoappin’, sendin’ her tae rah quarry, but.

(HINGMY): Hi, I was going to pop uvver tomorrow to see you and Auntie with mah mum if that’s okay.

(ME): Afternoon is okay.

(HINGMY): Yup that’s fine. Any particular time?

(ME): 1.30 or after.

(HINGMY): OK. That’s no bother. C…yah thimorra. :)

(ME): Picking my mum up at 2.00 so see you both after then.

(HINGMY): I’m wishing you all a very Happy New Year. Best wishes and yur health to all. xXx.

(ME): Aye.

(HINGMY): Hi. Thank you for my card. I was all over the place yesterday to thank you. How are you and Auntie? xXx.

(ME): She is in daycare on Mondays. A day oot. Banter. Music. Game of darts. Comes back singing.

(HINGMY): Hi, how are you? How’s my Auntie? How is she getting on at her daycare?

(ME): She sings a lot. Won the bools. Takes the odd bite of food oot therrr. Micht get her anither day addit. Yir maw wull get a birthday caird. Stay healthy.

(HINGMY): Thanks for that. I posted 1 for your mum the other day & so did ma mum. Won the bools? I take it that’s the pools? It will be good for her mingling and singing with other folk. I’m trying ma best to stay healthy LOL. Take care of yourself. X.

(ME): Boolin’. She has yet to win the OAP lottery.

(HINGMY): PMSL. Right. Gotcha. Fuk whit would she be like if she won it. Woohoo LOL. X.

(ME): She wid be rollin’ in money…£45.

(HINGMY): Hiyaaah. Thank you for the cards. How’s you? And, how’s my Aunt getting on?

At this point in the text messages, we go into a load of talk about her health. I don’t feel like repeating that level of detail here. I crack a joke and she pees hersel’ wi’ laughter. Also, over the festive period, on our side of things we feel like shit. We come down with something, but we recover without too much difficulty. And so we enter the year 2020.
   No energy. At this stage in human history, it is unlikely to be Covid-19. It’s SOMETHING. Everyone feels low for different reasons. Then everyone starts to feel better…

(HINGMY): That’s good you and the wee wumman got better. I’m working on my health, LOL. Mah wee wumman is getting picked up the day, and brocht uvver fur her dinner. She’s got a Zimmer. She’s very unstable on hur tootsies. X.

(ME): A Zimmer dinner. Wee wumman says…oh my goad, it’s rainin’…catsan’dugs.

(HINGMY): (Sends photo image that is rejected by my phone.)

(HINGMY): LOL. Aye, we feed our wee wummen on Zimmers. X.

(ME): Ah didnae get the furst messidge. Bet it wiz a Zimmer photie, but.

(HINGMY): Right! She’s coming uvver for her dinner. (Takeaway.) She’s unstable on her feet. Therefore she’s got a Zimmer. I was only kidding that we feed her Zimmers. Have I covered everything??? X.

(ME): Ah goat that messidge. Meant the wan wi’ the doonload.

(HINGMY): What wan wiz that? I’m lost. X.

(ME): Me, tae. Ah’m up the loft, noo, pittin’ up a shelf.

(HINGMY): (Sends two photo messages that don’t work.)

(ME): Disnae wurk oan mah phone, an’ oan the inturrrnet it’s no’ a secure kannekshun.

(ME):

I’m on the fifth floor, in a flat at 28 Avenue Trudaine, Paris 9. Or, at least, inside my head I am. There, at the start of the movie Amélie, we witness the sad sight of a sad Frenchman sadly erasing his friend from a book packed with addresses…with real live people. Except, of course, for the friend who just died. Hence the erasure of the entry there.
   That’s not me. I’m scrolling through text messages on my phone. They start before I am a dementia carer, and are mostly written in Scots. And then they turn to talk of being a carer. Eventually, there’s discussion of the cancer that took my cousin this year. Instead of erasing the entry, I memorialise it by typing the texts out here on my blog. Names are removed to protect identities. Dates are mostly blurred, apart from a reference to 2015 which sets the pace of the conversation.
   I wish I could just copy the messages over into this file, but the computer is stubborn and the phone’s manufacturer doesn’t even recognise the make and model. It might as well be a physical address book clutched in the hand of a very sad Frenchman at the start of a movie.
   With some alterations to handle privacy, and tidying of the original format, I place these messages here. Eventually, we reach the point of self-reference. She’s looking over sections of my dementia book and is aware of my blog. She buys the book.
   And now, here I am, mentioning all this on the blog as I have to write an obituary for someone who should’ve outlived my mother by many many years. The sad Frenchman has his book of addresses. I have the long list of texts. By accident, in writing out the texts on the computer, and scrolling down the phone screen, I make a strange mistake.
   I accidentally text nothing to my cousin. An empty text. It’s utterly random, a mistake of coordination as I deal with a computer and a phone. At the same time, it sums up my mood. I tell her, after she’s gone, that I don’t have the words. And I can see the puzzled expression on her face turn slowly to laughter as she’s about to call me an eejit.
   We made a deal. But we couldn’t keep to the whole deal. When she visited and had to talk about our private business, she’d sneak off to the kitchen and get all conspiratorial. Still, she had plenty of scope there for laughter. But there she was, this one time, not knowing we’d make a deal.
   She called to me. I’d gone upstairs for something. I walked down the steps, onto the last step. There was no way to reach the floor. She’d claimed the space in front of the stairs for herself. And she lowered her voice, in the usual conspiratorial way.
   The easiest method of saying you have cancer is to just come out and say it. Discovery of the cancer led to talk of the nature of it. Nasty. It was a nasty cancer, high up on the nasty list, but she had hope. The cure was fucking dreadful. Thanks to the dreadfulness of that cure, she had high hopes. You blast a disease with an atom bomb and you win.
   I’m on the last step. She blocks the staircase. We speak calmly, in a hush so no one can hear what is said. And we make a deal. It is in two parts. I explain that, if it comes to the worst, I might not be able to explain her death to my mother. My mother, her favourite auntie.
   Negative things stick in the mind when it comes to dementia. That’s why I select very deliberately when putting TV channels on for my mother’s viewing. No channels with breaks for news. Nothing about real-world tragedy or murder-fest crime shows, or any of it. There’s no tumult of shit from a world often past caring.
   Wall-to-wall music and wall-to-wall cookery shows. The business.
   If I pass on news of a death, my mother will be traumatised. An hour later, it’ll occur to her again and she’ll feel the initial shock all over again, again, again. And half an hour after that, day in, day out, until she herself dies. It’s cruel, and I won’t do that to her.
   Yes, it’s harsh when explaining this to my cousin. She’s taking a severe cure for severe cancer. And she can take this rough old deal. If she dies, as far as I am concerned…she is still very much alive. I can’t let her die. If my mother brings her up in conversation, I have to keep her alive without a tear in my eye.
   I must convince my mother. So I know I’ll be acting a part. As long as it is a deal between us. My cousin agrees. But that is only the first part of the deal. I’m older. And supposedly wiser. That’s up for debate. As I am older, I have an instruction for her. It’s the other part of the deal.
   Outlive me.
   Finally, a spot of laughter. She agreed that she’d try her best on that score. Well, anyway, that’s the story concerning our deal. She took a step back. I could finally hit the landing. There was no escaping this goodbye hug. Up until this point, we were both super-cool about everything.
   And now, with our arms around each other, things were too quiet. I was legally obliged to say something under the Geneva Convention on Saying Stuff. It’s real. Don’t look it up. They hide it from your search engines. So, for a moment we shared the fear and the pain and the possibility that this goodbye hug was a very final goodbye hug.
   Now it is intensely quiet. Nothing going on. I revisit this moment, and feel hushed in the revisitation. Stillness. But not emptiness. In my head, I say stuff. But the words aren’t there in the air. There’s nothing happening. Our universe winds down to its music-box finish. One last chime and the mechanism freezes over for winter.
   She can hear my mind saying the words.
   The moment is done.
   I wind the universe up again and it starts burbling away on a merry tune that doesn’t quite fit the mood. Ice cream van at a crematorium.
   Answering my unspoken thoughts, she stumbled on the words aye, I know. Then, for the sake of everyone else, we went back to being light and cheerful and happy-go-lucky. She blasted the cancer, signalled the all-clear, and had a few more years. In 2019, she told me that she had to go in for a second round of treatment. I knew that it was over, then. And I’d been waiting for the news, for months, after being told that.
   I haven’t placed all the text messages here. Some were dense and technical, dealing with the difficulties of the disease – and they were written with a great sense of humour. Her death caught me while we were still shielding in the highest level of social distancing. We shared that with her – the chemotherapy placed her in the high-risk group, too.
   We’re a lifetime on from the pause in shielding, and I’ve only just now left the house for the first time in many months. Going further than the bins, I mean. Had to pick up prescriptions outside the pharmacy. Some medicines can’t be delivered using the service – restricted, I guess. Might as well just collect them all in the one place.
   So, no attendance at a farewell service back then. Puts me in the same boat as a load of people who lost family to Coronavirus.
   I’m not sad. In the weeks following her death, I kept her alive. After all, that was part of the deal. I thought about her, her sense of humour, and I could hear her voice, making me laugh from beyond the grave.
   Aye, ah’m comin’ uvver tae haunt ye. Haunt ye wi’ laffs. Whit um ah like?!
   This is my obituary of someone who made me laugh a lot. Fuck it, I’m fucking laughing now as I sit here typing this, and I fucking know she’s fucking laughing at me for fucking laughing at this. Fucking swearing. Gone, but really just gone to the supermarket for cakes. Aye, that kind of gone, but in no way forgotten. Remembered with laughter, and remembered well.
   As someone else long-gone and well-remembered, said of me and my cousin…
   Here’s tae us, wha’s like us? Damn few, an’ their a’ deid, mair’s the pity.