Debbie Johnson - Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

I hate the fact that he died doing such a mundane thing. Cleaning the gutters. He was funny and kind and quietly brave – he was the type of man who would have thrown himself under a bus to save a child, or would have jumped into a raging sea to rescue a Labrador. Losing him because of leaves in the gutters seems so … pointless. He was an organ donor, though, which is some small comfort – the thought of all the lives he saved or changed for the better through that does help. I take consolation from someone walking around with that big, beautiful heart of his beating inside them.

So … by now, you’re either hooked and wondering how this story ends, or you’re considering calling the police to get a restraining order in case this crazy woman turns up at your café and tries to comfort random people.

The answer is, of course, that the story hasn’t ended – the story is still playing out, albeit at a very slow pace. We had a holiday the year after he died, and it was a disaster – a trip to Crete to stay in a hotel that turned out to be full of eighteen to thirty-year-olds, all on a mission to give themselves liver failure and complete their set of STD top trumps. It was loud, it was foul, and we all hated it – mainly, of course, because he wasn’t there. It was awful.

Now, I’m looking ahead and I see that there needs to be a change. David left us with enough life insurance to pay off the mortgage and the car loans, and to live on for a little while. We have no debt at all, which I know puts us at a big advantage over lots of families who are struggling to make ends meet.

But there’s nothing coming in – no income. Which means no holiday – not because of my lack of planning skills, but because we can’t afford it. Not if we want to eat as well. Don’t get me wrong, our heads are above water, but there isn’t much spare after paying the bills and doing the shopping and coping with what feels like the mountain of expense a teenage girl piles up!

If we ration we’ll be fine for another year. Rationing means no holiday – and I just can’t face it. I think we need a holiday – one that we actually enjoy, this time. We’ve all started to feel just a little bit better now. Almost against our will, there is more laughter, more easy chat, more smiling.

The kids’ lives have moved on, certainly a lot more than mine! They’re both in high school now, both starting to grow into young adults, both changing. I’d like to add another photo album to that shelf before they’re too cool to be bothered with their poor old mum.

I also know that I need to get my act together. I need to get a job – and not just for the money. I need to get out there, back into the world. Because the kids are that little bit older and more independent now. They don’t need me as much. They’re out a lot – or Lizzie is at least, and Nate is showing signs of following suit. That’s only right – it’s good. It’s what I want for them, to have normal lives. But me sitting at home in a rocking chair, counting cobwebs and watching The Good Wife on repeat isn’t going to do any of us any good.

Getting a job will help me to meet new people. Get away from my own problems. Make my world bigger. I have my sister, my parents and his family too – but sometimes, if I’m honest, that feels like more of a responsibility than a help. They’re all so worried about me all the time, I feel like I’m under a microscope. I think they’re waiting for me to crack.

I think they’re scared that long term, I can’t live without him. Maybe they’re right, I don’t know – but I have to try. I don’t want to forget David – that would be impossible even if I did – but I do need to start living my life After David. AD, if you like.

I started looking at jobs a few months ago and came to the depressing conclusion that I’m officially useless. I have the aforementioned Home Economics A level, which is the pinnacle of my academic achievement (I also have a C in Health and Social Care and a B in General Studies, which are really of no use to anybody). I worked at McDonald’s for a year before I had the kids and I got a food hygiene certificate when I did volunteer work at the school kitchen. Not hugely impressive, I know – it’s not like Marco Pierre White is hammering on the door with a job offer.

But I do cook – I cook a lot. Family dinners, occasional forays into something more exotic like Thai or Japanese. I do a mean roast and can make my own meatballs. I can bake and I can whip up marinades, and I can do a full English fry-up with my eyes closed.

I wouldn’t get very far on Masterchef , but I can cook – proper home-made stuff – the kind of food that isn’t just good for your body but good for your soul as well. At least I like to think so. I’m amazed, in fact, that the kids aren’t the size of that giant marshmallow man in Ghostbusters by now – one of the ways I’ve tried to console them (and if I’m honest, myself as well) over the last few years is through feeding them. It keeps me busy, it makes me feel like I’m doing something positive, and it’s a way to show I love them now they’re too old for public displays of affection.

They just scarf it down, of course, they’re kids – but perhaps, at somewhere like the Comfort Food Café, I could actually be of some use. It would be really, really nice to feel useful again – and to spend the summer in Dorset, and fill up another one of those albums.

So. There we go. I think that’s everything. Probably more than everything. I’m not sure this is what you meant when you said send your heart and soul in letter form, but that serves you right for being so vague! I bet you got some really strange replies – this one being possibly the strangest of all.

I won’t hold it against you, Cherie, if I never hear from you. But if you want to talk to me, or find out anything more, then let me know. Whatever happens, good luck to you.

All the best,

Laura Walker

In which I travel to Dorset, sing a lot of Meatloaf songs, accidentally inhale what might possibly be marijuana, wrap my bra around a strange man’s head and become completely betwattled …

‘They filmed The French Lieutenant’s Woman there,’ I say, trying to meet my daughter’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. She’s not interested, of course. She’s too busy staring at her phone, thumbs moving quick as lightning as she types. So quick they’re just vague pink blurs, in fact. If Lizzie was going to be a superhero, she’d be called Thumb Girl: the Fastest Text in the West.

Sadly, Thumb Girl doesn’t seem impressed with my cinematic reference, and really, what did I expect? Was that the best I could come up with? A sappy Meryl Streep movie from before she was even born? A historical romance featuring some award-winning moustaches and meaningful glances? It’s enough to give mothers the world over a bad name, for God’s sake.

‘Never heard of it, Mum,’ she replies, grudgingly. I’m actually surprised she even vocalises her response and suspect she’s saying something much ruder on her screen. I make a mental note to check her Twitter account later. Or Tumblr. Or Facebook. I’ve kind of lost track of which one is her favourite form of communication at the moment. It certainly isn’t good old-fashioned talking. Not with me at least.

I scrabble for something more contemporary – something cooler. Something that might make her hate me ever-so-slightly less than she does right now. Something along the lines of ‘the lead singer from Green Day will be living next door to us’, but more … true .

‘Yeah. I suppose it is a bit old for you. Well, they filmed Broadchurch there,’ I finally say.