I asked ChatGPT for TSP in the style of Adrian Mole's Diary.
Thursday, July 10th
Weather: Drizzle (internal and external)
Woke up to find that we are still technically homeless.
Also, that Moth has an incurable brain disease.
(Excellent start to the day.)
After much weeping (quiet, dignified), we made a completely irrational decision:
we are going to walk the entire South West Coast Path.
Yes — 630 miles of cliffs, rain, and blisters.
We own no decent footwear, and our tent smells like old socks and despair.
Still, apparently this is "healing."
Day 7: Discovered that cliff edges are not metaphorical.
Nearly fell off one while trying to pee discreetly.
Moth says he feels better. I think he’s in denial.
My shoulders have developed permanent dents from the rucksack.
Day 19: A woman gave us an apple.
It was the most profound act of human kindness I’ve experienced since Year 9,
when Pamela Millar let me borrow her Pritt Stick.
Apple made me cry.
Day 42: Moth is walking like a Norse god.
I am walking like a broken deckchair.
He says the illness feels like it’s “slipping away.”
I don’t say anything in case I ruin the moment.
Later: A man in a pub garden asked us to leave
because we “lowered the tone.”
Hard not to, when you smell like feet and philosophical epiphany.
Eventually, someone gave us a shed to live in.
I never thought I’d be emotionally attached to a garden outbuilding,
but I wept when we plugged in a kettle.
We finished the path.
We walked every mile.
Moth is still ill, but different.
I am still me, but softer.
Someone gave us a flat.
A real one. With windows.
Somehow, we survived.
Not just the walk —
the grief, the loss, the shame.
Wouldn’t recommend it, exactly.
But also, would.