Lizzie and I are lying in bed, unwinding after a long day.
I decide now might be a good time to tell Lizzie my plan. My plan to write a journal.
‘I’ve been thinking about writing all of this down. You know, this weird year or two. Moving to the countryside. Covid. Lockdown. Everything else. Ending up with this…’ I gesture vaguely to suggest Lizzie’s cancer, ‘… on top of it all.’
‘I’ve already scribbled some of it down,’ I continue, ‘and I’ve been thinking about turning it into a blog… or even a book.’
I look at Lizzie, tentatively. ‘What do you think?’
Lizzie doesn’t say anything, just carries on looking at FaceBook on the laptop lying on her legs.
I feel uncertain. ‘You know, I could show it to you first,’ I offer.
‘You could read it before I show it to anyone else. And if you didn’t want me to show it to anyone else, I wouldn’t have to.’
‘What do you think?’ I ask again.
Lizzie remains silent for a few seconds and then says… ‘No. It’s OK.’
For a moment, I feel a rush of warmth and inspiration. She’s trusting ME to tell our story. To share it with the world (as a blog… or even a book!). To be sensitive enough to recount all the details with care and consideration. To not fuck it all up.
Wow, I think, feeling truly trusted by Lizzie. Feeling honoured even.
But then I realise… Lizzie’s only said no to reading the blog/book, because she can’t be bothered to.
Even though I haven’t even written it yet, she pre-emptively can’t be bothered to read it.
She can never be bothered to read anything I’ve written. She’s just not remotely interested.
‘Okaay,’ I say. ‘I’m going to DO IT!’
Lizzie shrugs. Of course, dear.
P. D. Clifton 
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