Carys Ann McSweeney, my dear Mum, passed away peacefully this evening, aged 62. She was surrounded by friends and family, as was her final wish. She will be missed by all who knew her.

I love you, Mum. x

Just the facts...

She opened her eyes, looked square in to mine, and said 'Oh, hello darling'. And, as she reached out for me to put my hand in hers, I could have cried.

After I'd almost given up hope of ever hearing her utter another lucid sentence, this one simple greeting meant the world. I asked her if she was OK, but she had already slipped back in to unconsciousness before the words left my mouth. The moment was gone. But it happened, and that's all that matters.

I went to visit my father today. Partly because I wanted to see my Dad, and partly to get out of the house. We see so many visitors these days that I swear we're giving the entire population of China a run for its money in the tea drinking stakes. Its nice that people call, but sometimes it seems there's hardly five minutes in the day for Mamgu to sit down and rest.

Dad's been brilliant. He and Mum have been divorced for some time now, but they were married for almost twenty years before that. To be with someone for that amount of time means that, whatever may have happened since, you still have love for the other person. He's also been through something similar recently with his own Dad. Those memories, his feelings for Mum, and worrying about me means it can't be easy for him either. But he's always been on the end of the phone, making sure I'm alright, and he had an extra big hug for me today. And a Christmas present too, which always goes down well.

I wouldn't say I've learned much over the last few days, but I would say that certain things I already knew have been re-enforced.

Firstly, friends and family are the most important thing in the whole world, and you should cherish them because you'll never know when you might need them, and one day they'll be gone.

Secondly, no matter how bad things get, a nice cup of tea will always make it slightly better.

And thirdly, there is very little quality on television during the day. Believe me, there's only so many back-to-back feature length episodes of Columbo you can watch before you start to go insane.

My Indestructable Grandmother

My Nan, or 'Mamgu' as we call her (it being the Welsh for 'Grandma' - simple), is quite possibly the toughest person on the planet.

The SAS built their entire Survival Guide around her. She would easily win in a fight against Chuck Norris. AND Bruce Lee. In the event of a nuclear war, only two things would survive. Cockroaches, and Mamgu. I can just see her now, standing in the dust and rubble of what was humanity, blue rinse slightly frazzled, but still baking away another batch of Welsh Cakes, 'just in case'.

This woman has been through a World War. She's lived through so many changes to the world - political, behavioural, technological - the scale of which I doubt any other generation will see again. Despite being in her eighties, she still cooks four square meals a day, bakes whenever she's got a spare minute, and does the multitude of necessary things to keep a house in respectable order.

But, most amazingly of all, for the last month or so she has tirelessly helped care for her dying daughter.

Mum was diagnosed towards the start of the year. The sore throat and slight lump was enough of a warning, and the test results only confirmed what her nursing training had already led her to suspect. It was a shock when she told me, but even then I remember thinking, 'It'll be ok'.

That positive outlook was given further encouragement after a couple of months of radiotherapy seemed to be doing the trick. But that's exactly what it was. A trick. The disease was only migrating elsewhere. Another lump appeared on her leg. Then under her arm. Then behind the eye. Despite all this, I still thought there was hope. Even when she stopped telling me what treatment the doctors were recommending next, I still didn't, and maybe couldn't, believe that it was over. People would ask me in grave voices if I was doing ok. 'Yeah, fine', I'd say, thinking I meant it.

Looking back now, Mum lost her battle with cancer well before I accepted what was happening. I think she may have kept the seriousness of it all from me slightly, but it’s also much easier to hide from the truth when you're far enough away from it. Being on the end of the phone means someone can drop all the hints they like, but your mind fills in the blanks with what you want to hear.

But believe me, there's no way it can fool you in to thinking everything's ok when you see your dear Mum in tears and gasping for breath, because the physical act of lifting a mug of tea to her mouth is almost too much for her. Seeing her suffer rips my heart to shreds every single day. But it’s Mamgu I'm most concerned for.

I'm lucky in that I have the most incredible friends, who have done nothing but be there for me ever since this dreadful time began. Being an only child, I can only imagine what this is like for my uncles to see their big sister wasting away. But even if they don't talk about it openly, they do at least have each other to go down the pub with, and offer support in their own way. But this must be doubly hard for my Nan. I don't think its fair for anyone to out live their child, let alone have to help care for them and witness their final days first-hand.

None of us know how many of those days are left. But for now I've got to try and support my Mamgu, whether it’s with a hug, a helping hand with the dishes, or just being the one to eat all those bloody Welsh Cakes.

The Big Smokey

Camden is a very strange place indeed.

I wouldn't say it was intimidating, but with all the market stalls competing for the title of 'Camden's Loudest Speaker System', the smells from the array of open-air food outlets competing for space in your nostrils, and the heavy police presence competing with the local drunks, its certainly an assualt on the senses. As I walked through its crowded streets yesterday evening, I felt I could have been at some sort of music festival, or wandering around an unfamiliar foreign country, or perhaps a member of a savage post-apocalyptic settlement you'd expect to find in Mad Max.

As it was, I was in the northern part of London, on my way to a music venue known as The Roundhouse, to see a man called William Robinson Jr, or 'Smokey' to his mates. He's arguably one of the finest singer-songwriters to have ever picked up a pen, a hugely successful producer, and just so happens to have played a pretty major part in the early days and continued success of Motown Records. He wrote some of the best hits for the label, like 'My Girl', 'The Way You Do The Things You Do', 'Tears of a Clown' and 'Tracks of My Tears'. And he sang them all last night, with the help of his band and the BBC Concert Orchestra.

Smokey will be seventy next year, but his voice has more than stood the test of time. And the man can still move, his hips launching into spontaneous gyration whenever it was time for a slow number. However, I think its fair to assume that Smokey's had some 'work' done. The man's face is tighter than a drum. Seriously, you could bounce pennies off his forehead. But even then, I'm sure it would make a satisfying sound.

Two hours of intermittent gyrating and fantastic singing later, it was time to hit the streets of Camden once more. What struck me more than anything this time round was the interesting array of haircuts and outfits being sported by the natives. Of course, when I say 'interesting', I mean 'bloody ridiculous'. Why doesn't anyone say anything to these poor people? Clearly they've left their flat without checking themselves in the mirror. That could be the only reasonable explanation for walking around in full view of other people, looking like a heavy metal chimney sweep in a wind tunnel.

James Bond has just come on the television so I'm afraid I've become a little distracted, and I'm not sure how to bring this post to a satisfying conclusion. Its a Roger Moore one. He's probably the best Bond, I'd say. There's a midget in it too. And a car just took off and flew away. Brilliant.

Can you judge a book by an email?

Its an exciting time at The House of Tim. As I mentioned in a previous post, one of my housemates has recently left Bristol to persue a career in London. This means we have a spare room that we have to fill, unless I and Other Tim forego non-essential luxuries like food and clothing in order to pay the council tax. To this end, a very attractive looking advert was placed on Gumtree yesterday evening. With pictures and everything.

I get a very strange, perverse pleasure out of this sort of thing. I've advertised a room on Gumtree before, and we had about a dozen people come and look around the flat. There's something about having the power to decide whether someone gets to live somewhere or not that's just...well, its just fun. Management types must get this every time they interview candidates for a job. 'Why do you think you are suitable to share the same living space as me? Hmm? WRONG ANSWER. You FAILED, and will forever remain homeless...now, GET OUT'. Maybe its just me.

We have very straightforward criteria for our potential housemate. He or she must be a professional, someone who is neat and tidy, but most importantly of all, someone who can see the simple pleasure in occasionally eating a whole bag of onion rings while watching old episodes of Red Dwarf.

As with advertising for a job, the judgement starts before we even meet the candidates. In the same way your new career can fly or die on the strength, or weakness, of your CV, the email you send in reply to the Gumtree advert is very important. Come across as too serious, too 'wacky', or too much like a pyromaniacal sociopath, and there's a good chance you'll find yourself in the 'Deleted Items' folder.

We've had one reply already. This person works in a 'Sports and Activities Department', enjoys competing in triathlons, and is looking at taking up kayaking next. My immediate thought is of a man who is never out of a pair of shorts two sizes too small for him, who would insist on filling the flat with bikes, wetsuits and various other activity sports paraphernalia, while living off guarana bars and energy drinks and listening to the caterwauling of the likes of Alanis Morrisette. I could be reading too much in to this.

Either way, I doubt this man will fit in with the 'Onion rings/Red Dwarf' mentality of The House of Tim. So for now, the search continues...

How could I?

One more thing has happened since I last blogged. I can't believe I forgot.

Last week, I met one of the most influential men of my generation. Someone who changed the way people lived and thought, for the better. You could call him a revolutionary. You could call him a living legend. You could call him Mr.Motivator. I got to call him Derrick;

Minutes after this photo was taken, Derrick slipped in to a nurses uniform, and started the Bristol Half Marathon by waving a flag on top of a double decker bus. Now normally, seeing one of your childhood heroes degraded like this would be a crushing experience. But, considering he spent most of my childhood dressed like this, on NATIONAL TELEVISION, I soon got over it.

Remember me?

I could blame it on the holiday. I could blame it on moving house and not sorting out my broadband yet. I could blame it on the boogie...as nonsensical as it sounds.

But, the fact of the matter is, I just haven't had the inclination to write anything. I've been as regular as the cast of Last of the Summer Wine on the Atkins diet, and that is a BAD thing. Sorry.

The last time I logged on to this site was mid August. A lifetime ago. So much has happened since, so here it is in a nutshell;

My housemates and I went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. More accurately, we drove to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The more observant amongst you may have worked out that said festival is held in the Scottish city of Edinburgh. In Scotland. Scotland is a long way from Bristol, but it was well worth it.

Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I've been to, and quite possibly the best place on earth every August. If you like comedy (and lets face it, if you don't, you may as well say you don't like laughing, or generally being happy), then you'll LOVE The Fringe. I saw too many great shows to list them all here, but I can highly recommend musical double act Frisky and Mannish, (who had me in stitches with a rendition of Noel Coward's 'I've Been to a Marvellous Party' in the style of Lily Allen), anything uttered by Scottish comedian Phil Kay, (who made me cry...twice), and a show called 'Tim: Against All Odds', a wonderfully crafted comedy drama, that involved everyone called Tim being dragged up on stage at the end and generally being celebrated by every single member of the audience. Needless to say, when the actors found out that both myself and my housemate were called Tim, they got very excited indeed. Our flat has been known as 'The House of Tim' ever since.

On the way back from Edinburgh, we stopped off for a night out in Newcastle. And that's about as much as I can remember of that night, I'm afraid. What a city.

Since then, I've had a job interview which was sort of successful, in that I didn't get the actual job, but opportunities have arisen as a result of my being able to sit in front of two people in a suit, and talk about how great I am for 45 minutes.

On the subject of jobs, my great friend Claire started her new life as a ball-breaking lawyer extraordinaire this week, and very proud of her we all are. This also means that her and her husband, my other great friend Hywel, have moved just up the road to Cheltenham. This is great for me, but not so great for the people they've left behind in London. I imagine it as some sort of barren wasteland without them. A bit like the start of the Terminator films when its set in the future...all psychotic red-eyed robots, stamping on human skulls. I'm sure its just like that.

I am not one to share intimate details of my love life for fear of jinxing it, but suffice to say that recently it could be described as 'better'. So, that's good.

Oh, and last week my housemate (not Tim, the other one...keep up...) organised some leaving drinks, before taking the opportunity to live and work in London. At some point during that night someone must have spiked my pint of Guinness with several more, as it turned out that I became quite drunk. Now, this might have had an influence on me falling head first on to the pub's wooden floor, but I really doubt it. Anyway, being a man, it took me until this week to go to the doctor and get it checked out. He pressed my head a couple of times, seemed impressed that I wasn't knocked out by this amazingly acrobatic, high-speed headstand, and told me to take a couple of paracetamols and take it easy.

If I'd have thought, I could have blamed my lack of blogging on severe brain trauma. Bugger.