“I need to know how to get the comments posted in the same way as they are on your blog?”, F asks me.

I am astounded by the fact that he knew about the blog (not that it would be difficult) and also that he has said nothing up to now.

Thoughts race through my head.  What has he read?  How long has he been reading?  Has what he has read made a difference as to how he feels about me, given that I have been, sort of, quite open about how I feel?  Why hasn’t he said anything?  Is he angry or not?  What should I reply to his question?

Of course, he knows about blogs.  He’s signed up to one.  The one that his boss does.  But that’s about work.

I think: How stupid am I not to have told him.

I think: But what if he asks me to take it down?  How can I?  It’s part of me, it’s something I just HAVE to do.  And, although I can be anonymous somewhere else I can’t (or is that don’t want to be) too anonymous.  After all it’s about my life.  It involves my friends, my life, my interests, my love.

No, it’s ‘don’t want to be’.  I don’t want to give this up.

Later.

As I get dressed I think about what I have dreamt.  For a moment I think of it as if we have really had the conversation before I realise that it just had to have been a dream.  Part of me breathes a sigh of relief.  Part of me thinks I should do something.  Part of me thinks I should leave well alone.

To put it mildly, I am a little confused.

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I have got some spots on the inside of my legs, around the knees.  A couple of nights ago, they were really hot.  So hot and uncomfortable, in fact, that, lying on my side I could not put my legs together.  I thought it was just something that would go away.  It hasn’t.

I told F.  He had a look.  He decided that it was because it was dry skin.  He said I needed to put some cream on it.  I was going to put some hand cream on it (as that is all I have in that line of product).  He told me no and gave me some of his body cream (I still fail to see any real difference – but what would I know?).

As I was putting it on and rubbing it in (because I so hate the feel of the skin afterwards – so greasy like, as I used to say to V, dipping yourself in chip fat), I said that I didn’t understand why it had happened as I never had this problem before now (apart from my hands but there’s a good reason for that).

“We all change” he said, in a voice that sounded more he was saying this as if a mother to a child, “I didn’t have hair when I was eight”, he added as he walked out of the bathroom.

I just laughed.