I’ve spent the morning cross-legged under my letterbox, awaiting a delivery from the postman.
And lo! Said delivery finally dropped onto the doormat (Inevitably just after I’d given up hope and left my vantage point in favour of Facebook.)
The first, long-awaited copy of Me After You, my memoir about life since Mark’s death.
Thing is, I hardly dare open it.
It’s all the words that are contained within it that are putting me off – the ones which raged from my broken heart onto the keyboard over five fraught months. They’re as precious to me as little pearls, those words; they are fierce, tender, raw, profane, downright dirty in parts.
But most importantly they are truthful, which is all I really wanted from them in the first place.
But what if they don’t look right? What if, now they’re out there, you don’t like them, or the calamitous tale they recount?
The book has been a labour of love. It has permitted me to spend time with my husband every day, to exhume Him and all the memories that go with Him.
It is also proof that if you believe in and love something passionately enough, with all of your heart and every sinew, you can achieve anything.
Ah fuck it. Mark, pet – this is for you. I’m going in…