I have been e passionate about Sylvia Plath since I first read The Bell Jar at 18. I wrote a special study about her, taught her poetry at A level and all my friends know what a Plath girl I am. So obviously an evening of her poetry at the South Bank was not an event I was going to miss. Gareth has always maintained living with a tortured woman was quite enough for a Welshman so it was down to my friend Keith to accompany me to a reading of Ariel read by a collection of various literary women to each read a poem. Her daughter Frieda Hughes introduced the evening and for two hours we were treated to the powerful, beautiful language of her finest work.
But for me the most magical moment of the evening was when Frieda Hughes turned round as we waited behind her for the lift and smiled at me.
Going away now is very much like going away with very young kids in that there is so much stuff to take for me and unlike years ago I m pretty useless now I can’t hold anything much so poor gareth has to do everything which meant he forgot part of the suction machine. I managed to quell my panic praying that I would not choke to death on my own mucus in Llundudno leaving gareth to cope wondering which film I d seen when a dead man is driven round as they don’t have time t deal with him. Trapped for hours in my own mind imaging my own death is a seriously scary thing. Will I know? Where will I be? But I must stop today I am alive. So despite the fact that it is still winter in Wales we walked on the pier had a few drinks and I bought a groovy pair of pink shoes! We drove past the cottage where me and 7 friends had spent two weeks in 1973 and remembered places we’d taken the boys to. We drove past Gareth’s old family home and went to the graveyard where Gareth’s dad Trevor had once said to us. You’ re a long Time dead. A bitter sweet trip.
I am sitting on in the garden enjoying the warm sunshine taking in the pink blossom the fresh green leaves and our newly landscaped garden. I shut my eyes and feel the hot sun caressing my cheeks when a bluebottle lands on me. Now you have to remember that I can’t raise my arms so I blow on it. It flies off and lands straight back in the trickle of slobber that has seeped out of my mouth and is slithering down my dress. I start thinking of an episode of Breaking Bad that I have just watched when Walt spends hours obsessed with a fly in his meth lab and feel a rush of empathy as this god dams fly will not get off me. Like Scrappy he seems to have taken a liking to my slobber. When my I pad over heats I decide that’s it and with one last attempt at blowing off fly I go inside. I am alone today and soon engulfed in my struggle to do anything. The house is boiling but I am unable to switch it off. I m boiling but cannot take my cardigan off. I feel tears of frustration not far away. Need my neighbour but I can’t reach her doorbell. I stand staring at it before staring at her through the window. She comes in to help me. An hour later I feel cold!!!!!!