In an attempt to keep warm I’m wearing my kitty hat at my desk. You know the one. You’ve seen photos. It’s a grey crocheted beanie hat with ears. I adore it, but I’m in such a bad mood this morning I just feel stupid in it.

Fucking grow up, Justine. You’re not a child.

I am whingeing. I am scowling. I am growling.

Suddenly, someone knocks quietly on my door. I turn towards the sound and look through the glass panel, only just restraining my hand from grabbing a stapler and hurling it in that direction.

It’s Lynne, from the next door office. Lynne is a database programmer, like myself, very quiet, conscientious, shy. Maybe ten years older than me. Her pale face smiles back at me from behind the glass. I try on a welcoming expression. I’m not sure it’s convincing, but she seems to be encouraged enough to poke her head round the door. She clears her throat and says:

“Morning. I just wanted to tell you that your hat really suits you. It looks lovely.”

And with that, she is gone, not waiting for a reply and shutting the door softly behind her.

So I quite like the sunshine now. And the morning. And my hat.

And she’s left me her smile. It’s all over my face.

Can I just say thank you to everyone who sent messages of support and love. It meant more than you know. It meant more than I thought it could.

It strikes me now that I’ve been so busy trying to distract myself by playing the fool via Twitter and Tumblr that I’ve not revisited Stuart’s story in writing.

My friend was moved from the neurological unit back to our home town, Brighton, about a week ago. The doctors decided there was nothing more they could do as the damage to his brain is too extensive, and scheduled the withdrawal of all life support on Monday. Stuart was expected to die quickly. We had all in one way or another prepared ourselves for his death, but then the unexpected happened: he carried on breathing on his own. He still does.

This is the worst possible outcome. I make no apologies for that statement, and Stuart would be the first to agree. In fact, he’d wallop me on the back with a ‘You’re right, you lovely fucker!’ and give me a huge hug.

Did I say how much I miss him?

We, his family and friends, find ourselves unable to grieve, yet still mourning for a loved one who is no longer with us. We will visit him in the hospital, stroke his hand, read him stories, tell him dirty jokes, bring him flowers, kiss his face, show him photos as if his eyes are open, try to persuade ourselves that somehow he is still here. But he’s not. He’s gone. He won’t return. And there is no way of making any kind of sense of our loss while he breathes.

No-one knows how long this will last. It could be weeks, it could be years. We will carry on loving him and caring for him. We won’t stop.

We are heartbroken. But we cannot allow ourselves to be heartbroken.

A good friend, S, was riding his bicycle down the hill round the corner from my house Monday 2nd March, when a car turned into the road without looking and smashed into him. He was going fast and wasn’t wearing a helmet, but the consultant said it wouldn’t have made any difference. His brain impacted so hard within his skull it haemorraged. He’s lost the use of an eye, and an arm has been crushed. But it’s the brain injury which is the real problem, of course. He’s been lying in a coma in a specialist neurological unit since the accident.

The prognosis is extremely poor, the likelihood that S will live very much longer very low. His wife, a good friend, is refusing to see most people, even their 3-year old son.

Despite the fact he’s in a coma, S has had to be heavily sedated to try and alleviate some of the pressure on his brain. On Sunday they tried to bring him out of the sedation, but the pressure in his skull increased rapidly and dangerously and they had to put him back under. They said they’d never had to use such huge quantities of sedatives on anyone before.

That’s my lad. Fighting like a rhino. That’s what I call raging against the dying of the light.

I’m still writing lame jokes on Twitter and arsing about and talking crap, because I don’t really know what else to do. You see, he wouldn’t want it any other way:

“What the FUCK are you doing, moping around?”, he’d say, “I heard there are NSFW photos of unicorns screwing narwhals which need sharing. Get to it.”

So I will. I’ll think up gags while I’m crying at my desk, or on the bus, or in bed, just to try and make him laugh in my head. And to distract me from the horror.

I can’t really see what I’m typing any more.

And I know it’s a cliché and you’ve heard this a thousand times, and I know you probably don’t need telling but I don’t fucking care, I’m going to say it anyway. Hold your people close, guys. Hold them close because you don’t ever know what’s going to happen, or whether they’ll be there tomorrow.

We love you so much, S. Keep fighting. And don’t worry, dude: give me five minutes to pull myself the eff together and normal service will be resumed. There will be lame puns and stupid jokes aplenty.

Yeah, so there you go. Right in the eye, World.

The correct form for this meme is for me now to say whoever would like to be ‘interviewed’ by me, leave me a comment to that effect, or email, and I’ll think up some questions and email you with them. Then you respond to them on your blog. Or in chalk on the pavement, wherever you like.

That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.

In case no-one’s noticed this also means I’ve posted two blog posts in just over a week. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Commence pant-shitting.

1) What is your favorite song? Why?

I’m not sure I could pick an absolute favourite song, but it’s one of my favourites & probably means more to me than any other. In The Garden by Van Morrison. My Dad introduced me to Van the Man when I was about 12, giving me a tape of Morrison’s No Guru, No Method, No Teacher and whispering “Listen to In The Garden. It’s my favourite. The piano is the sunshine coming through the trees”. And he was right.

It’s possibly the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, but the reason it’s so important to me is due to my relationship with my father. It could be called ‘deeply traumatising’ if you were into huge understatement, and was made up of about 97% fear and pain and 3% flashes of intense joy. He was schizophrenic, alternately terrifying, maudlin & hilarious. I hadn’t heard from him for 8 years when he emailed from Belarus. Then he visited in 2006 for two days for his father’s birthday and the last communication I ever had from him was a one-line email in the same year saying he was deeply ashamed of me. He died suddenly of a stroke in Belarus in November 2007. I haven’t actually listened to the song for about 8 years. But I think I will now.

2) Best trip you’ve ever taken – where and why?

7 months travelling through Mexico & Central America, 1997-1998. Usual seat-of-your-pants hippy traveler shit but I loved it. I adored Honduras – where I learned to scuba dive and nearly stayed on as Divemaster – and El Salvador, where the people, so ravaged by war and death squads were supremely kind, dignified and proud. Guatemala did my head in. I fell deeply in love with Mexico. Belize shat us out after a day: “Get back to England you fucking whiteys!” (British squaddies were known for behaving shockingly in Belize City & the place scared the living crap out of me). I met and travelled with some wonderful people, saw incredible things, hiked up volcanos, visited pyramids, lived butt nekkid on a beach for three weeks, contracted Giardia (look it up; actually dont because it contains the word ‘explosive’), and, know what, I’m not going to go on any more, it’ll take up pages. Suffice to say it was an incredible experience and I have the scars to prove it.

3) What are three accomplishments you’re most proud of?

Getting my first novel written & accepted for publication. Can that be all three?

(Out April 2010, get ready to pre-order on Amazon! Unless you’re in America! Or anywhere other than UK & the Commonwealth! Bugger!)

4) Favourite food?

I’m a woman who will eat pretty much anything, especially anything meat-based, but it wasn’t always like that. I need to tell a wee story to demonstrate the deep love I have for my favourite food. According to my mother I didn’t eat anything, not a thing, until I was about five years old. Teachers used to call her from school at lunchtime and ask her in desperation “What does this child eat?”. “Nothing”, would come Mum’s calm reply. It wasn’t entirely true, of course. Mum resorted to the old Croatian baby food classic: fresh white bread dipped in Soured Cream. It’s still my ultimate comfort food.

5) What do you think your best quality is and why?

I’m passionate. In every way, about everything. It can also be my worst quality; when coupled with my natural impulsiveness it spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

But that’s all I’m going to say about that.

That’ll be that then. As you were.

One: I’m a mutt

Apparently we mutts are going up in the world.  My father was half black Jamaican, half Polish and my mum’s Croatian. “Good mix”, is the usual response I get to this information. I don’t really know how to respond to this, mainly because I’m not entirely sure what a ‘bad’ mix would be.  I don’t feel black and I don’t feel white; I’ve always just felt something else. Or ‘Other’, as I’ve had to put on questionnaires until a few years ago. Now I get to tick the little box beside ‘Mixed race: White & Black Caribbean’, which, you know, is kind of nice. I have hair which has mad skills at being curly and I can rock a pretty serious afro when called upon to do so (as you can imagine this doesn’t happen often. Or ever.).* I still don’t understand why some women would iron all the life out of their curls.

One of my favourite games is when people I meet for the first time try to guess where I’m ‘from’. I get the initial askance staring and then the inevitable question: “Where are you from?”. I tell them I’m from Croydon, South London. There’s usually an embarrassed smile and then “Yes, but where are you originally from. You know.”. Yes, I do know, but I’ve heard this so often that I have to be facetious for a little while longer. The usual guesses as to my ethnic makeup, in order of popularity, are as follows:

1. Brazilian
2. Spanish
3. Israeli
4. Italian
5. Arabic
6. Something vaguely mixed

It upsets me when mixed-race people refer to themselves as Black. This happens mostly in the USA, where racial history is very different and much more immediately brutal than ours in the UK, so I understand it completely. But I think we can start recognising some of the complexities going on here. Especially with a mutt about to be crowned Emperor of the World President. Well, witness the muttness and make your own decision where you think I’m ‘from’. Or, you know, don’t.

Two: I’ve whupped so-called terminal cancer’s arse

Because I am teh awesome. After months of strange fevers, burgeoning lumps in my neck, colds which lasted weeks, etc. I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma a month after my 19^th birthday. The diagnosis came 4 days before I was due to start my year off, travelling with my boyfriend in Brazil. I wept when I was told, not because I had stage 3 cancer (which you can file under ‘Things I really should be crying about’) but because I wouldn’t see my lad. The cancer had spread, and I wasn’t really expected to survive for longer than 9 months. I didn’t really care, though, I was in love and that’s really all I had room for in my head. Which is really just as well because I went through some pretty nasty tests (bone marrow extraction, anyone? yes please, I’ll take 3!), extensive chemotherapy, radiotherapy and a resultant bout of Shingles all over and in my face (use your imagination) which had me in hospital for 2 weeks in excruciating pain & looking like something out of Creature Workshop, but not caring because a constant IV morphine drip is so, so, so nice. All these crazy here-comes-death-related shenanigans have left me with some serious and permanent side-effects, like not being able to have kids. But, I’m alive. Which, I think we can all agree, is pretty important if you want to write your second novel.

It drives me crazy when people call cancer things like ‘The Big C’, but what I hate the most, what leaves me grinding my teeth & wanting to get stabby with it, is when people say I was brave. When people say children with cancer are brave. Bravery has nothing to do with it. You’re brave if you run into a burning building to save an old lady or a kitten or your new 17″ MacBook Pro (OK, maybe not then, that’s just the law). You’re brave if you stand up to injustice at probable or definite serious cost to yourself. This is bravery because you are doing something scary or dangerous out of choice. Living with cancer does not involve choice. If you had a choice YOU WOULDN’T BLOODY CHOOSE TO HAVE CANCER. Right. Apologies. Rant over. Oh wait, no: UP YOURS, CANCER.

Three: I’m afraid of flying

Very, very afraid of flying. But I never let my scardiness stop me despite fully expecting to fall out of the sky at any moment while on a plane (related: benzodiazepines are my friend). So that’s good, I suppose. Unless the plane actually does fall out of the sky. In which case it wouldn’t be. OK, so, moving on.

Four: I cannot believe someone is publishing my first novel

I’ve wanted to be a novelist since I was about 3 but was always too frightened to show anyone my writing. The writing course I did 5 years ago resulted in an editor at a major publishing house being excited by my novel, then an agent, then other people and OMFG why, how, is that that I am writing stuff that others find readable? Good, even. “Bold and original”, even. I don’t know. I still can’t fathom it. But I know that I am one lucky lady.

Five: I’ve been meaning to get a tattoo for the past 15 years

Latest idea: swallow on either a) shoulder blade (too normal), b) somewhere on lower belly & to the side (too hidden), c) under forearm (too trendy). Cue another 15 years of sweet, sweet indecision.

Six: I’m a sailor

I have 2 sailing boats, ‘cos that’s how flippin’ posh I am. I started sailing about 6 years ago, on a beautiful hot day in June. The boat was a friend’s 35-footer, the sea was calm, the breeze slight and the sun shone. This is the life, I thought to myself. Two months later we had a 22′ saily boat, a 1976 Kingfisher 21+ called Santa Teresa de Jesus (previously owned by a devoted Catholic). Oh, and that thing about being posh? Bollocks. We couldn’t afford this boat, no way. I just had to have one. Needed to have one (I’ve mentioned previously how I have somehow confused the words ‘want’ and ‘need’ in my head, much to the detriment of my bank balance). Lovely old thing, my boat is, tough as the proverbial ancient footwear. But where is the sunshine I’d promised myself in my head, the lazing, the cocktails on the foredeck?  I learned to sail ST in the Thames Estuary & River Medway, dodging oil tankers, freezing to death, peeing in a bucket and regularly going aground stopping for tea on the mud banks. Since then we’ve sailed the boat round to our current lovely haunt of Chichester Harbour, and often spend weekends messing about in the Solent, longer holidays sailing along the coast to places like Beaulieu, Isle of Wight and further into Devon and Dorset.

We bought a 35-year old, 30′ Kingfisher a couple of years ago because it was going so cheap it would have been rude not to. It’s still being worked on, and has been renamed Wakulla (which means ‘Strange and Mysterious Waters’) after one of the largest, deepest freshwater springs in the world. It (the spring, not the boat) is in northern Florida and that’s where A and I spent our 2^nd wedding anniversary. It’s also where The Beast from the Blue Lagoon was filmed. So there. One day I’ll cross the Atlantic in Wakulla. One day.

Seven: The Internet is my spiritual home

That’s all I have to say about that. Because it’s, you know, pretty sad.

Right then, it strikes me I’ve written much more about me than I originally intended, which I guess makes me an attention whore. Thanks for sticking it out. I’m sure the whiskey chasers helped.

7 other people I’m stalking want to know more about are:

@secretsquirrel

@coyotesqrl

@sween

@stevewhitaker

@favrdbot. Oh wait, no, hang on…

@trelvix

@Artsmonkey1

@adamisacson

Oh, go on guys, please do it. I’ll shout ‘arses’ at you until you do.

*Please advise on the correctness of my punctuation here. Yeah, I’m asking. You don’t get to come here are read all this shit and not have to pay for it, you know.