Life goes on, and on, and on, until it stops.

Hubby and I watched C0l0r me Kubrick last night, a “truish” story about a very ordinary London man who impersonated the film director of the title, conning people out of money, services, sexual favours, and in the process ruining lives. It was marked on the box as a comedy but, like so many films we have rented in the past with that label, it turned out to be entertaining, often amusing, but not really a comedy. There has to be a better way to classify these things.

Anyway, what was really exciting for us was that much of it was filmed in the Isle of Man, where we visited darkomen last summer, and we recognized many places where we trod or drove, including an unmistakable view of Port Erin. It was lovely.

My brother phoned this morning and we discussed our experiences of our mother’s mental deterioration. She forgot for a moment who his wife was when she spoke to her on the phone, and I told him about the cribbage incident. We both feel rather impotent, since we live far from her, he more so than I. Our brother who is geographically close to her limits his involvement for reasons both obvious and obscure, and she is the kind of person who has been fiercely independent all her life and doesn’t want to bother him for things, even though he is a five-minute drive away. On the other hand, she telephones me for every little thing, and I am 700 km. away. What this does is make me feel guilty that I’m not nearer, but I don’t know what to do about that, other than leave my family and camp out in my old bedroom. That’s just wrong.

In the meantime, life continues at its pace du jour, and I am swept along it inexorably.

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