I spoke to my father’s friend earlier today. I phoned him because I wasn’t sure if he picked up an order of service at the funeral and I wanted to send him one in the post. He asked me how I’m getting on at work. I told him I left my library job because I was unwell, he said Your Dad was afraid of this. And the tears came again.

Every now and again something sets me off. And I’m not talking about a silent dignified cry – I’m talking snot rockets and wailing.

I’ve started taking photographs, and in a couple of months I’m returning to OCA. I feel a bit weird about photographing this time. Grief seems like something inappropriate to document. But then, this time feels poignant… worth preserving. Is it morbid? Callous? I feel a drive to create meaning from this time, and pain. Something to hold on to. Or rather, something to hold on to me.