January 30th is a date that is full of memories for me. The nice thoughts are to do with my dear friend Nina. Today would have been her 96th birthday, had she lived. Of course people don't go on for ever (although our royal family seem to be going in that direction), and it would have been awful to see her deteriorate any further. Some of my fondest memories are of our little bus trips round London, most of which terminated at Greenwich Park. We had such lovely times there, enjoying all the flowers and the views, having a bit of lunch and then going along the river. Greenwich doesn't seem quite the same since Nina died.
The horrible memories concern my Mother's second husband. It would have been his birthday today, too. I still haven't really come to terms with the sheer horror of the short time we lived under the same roof. Eighteen years after his death, I still feel physically and emotionally sick at even the memory of that person. His was the one death that I celebrated. I had put aside a sensationally good bottle of wine from a recent trip to Spain. I cracked it open as soon as I found out the evil cunt had pegged it. I can still taste it now! I will spend today deep in thought, as I always do on 30th January.
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