I should really be typing this up on my freshly replaced iPhone which feels like a Devin Toner (or a Devin Phone-r, if you like) compared to my little temp. The temp was so miniscule I had to do a granny on it and wear my glasses to text and even then my fat fingers frequently mistyped that “I’m doing pj ranks” in reply to “How are you today?” and I haven’t quite resorted to rating my pyjama collection just yet.
I recall an interesting episode five years ago not unlike nightwear grading when I found myself on the kitchen floor of my lovely four bedroomed detached house alphabetising the fridge magnets (alphabet fridge magnets, so it wasn’t that random), ironically, in my pyjamas. Why was I there? It was the middle of the day and I’m sure I should have been doing something more productive, like, I don’t know, working or taking care of my child, but no, organising the fridge magnets was pressing at that particular moment.
Today I tidied my bedroom here at home, drawers and all. Maybe things haven’t changed all that much in five years. Still avoiding real duties, real life. But I have a tidy room and a tidy house is a tidy mind, which is what I used to tell myself. Ha. My house is always pretty tidy and I tell you, my head is not.
That kind of sounds like the only thing I did all day was sort my everyday bras from my good bras, I was better than that though. I got up and drove ElsaDaughter to school so that I could meet with her careteam and explain the situation. I was proud of her and proud of me. Her Deputy Principal was effervescent as a Boost tablet about her academic ability (really that kid makes me sick sometimes…) and I was open, articulate and undaunted by the expression of the truth of my predicament. I emerged unscathed and went back to our own little gem of a flat to have my old and new phones swapped; collect the Children’s Allowance (anyone else counting on that one hundred and thirty Euro every month?); pick lunch up for ElsaDaughter; photocopy sick notes and make it to my appointment with my GP. Then I made it back here and did the room tidy and had a mini crash and burn.
My morning may sound basic, untaxing to the fully functioning- even for me it sounds considerably less intense and hectic than my regular Tuesday mornings – however, for Dotty, it was as formidably threatening as a husky phone call from Liam Neeson. My doctor, an elegant, shops – at – Reiss, understated beauty, was surprised at how “well” I seemed today, being competent and rational in my explanation of the weekend’s antics. “I know”, I responded, “I’m baffled by it too.” There is no rhyme or reason to my moods,no pattern by which I can predict the onslaught of obsidian rage or the flood waters of pitch grief for a perceived lost future. But in “well” lies the key: when you’re sick you might be fortunate enough to have a friend who sends you a “Get Well Soon
card. Hopefully soon, I will be “well” because at the moment I am sick. And it is not my fault – NOTE TO SELF!
I took a break to watch Professor Brain Cox fondling human brains. Imagine he was in D:REAM: things can only get better, indeed.
I had what I expect and hope to be my last contact with Quarter Pounder today, apart from some outstanding financial transactions. I’m relieved. Movin’ on up, movin’ on out. More nineties musical references.
Poor Tom Hiddleston called in today and I was a right bitch to him. Luckily he is a good enough friend to accept me when I’m a cranky cow, which is often. I’m so tetchy about certain things at the moment especially any criticism or even questioning of my feminine morals. His concern riled me, just as Sir David Attenborough’s did. I should really take a chill pill.
Speaking of chill pills, my GP changed my night time tablet to try eradicate the dreaded Dead Sea Sweats. I asked her not to allow more than four to be dispensed at a time, how sensible of me! So I don’t have enough to do any damage although today I’m in no way inclined today to exit this Human Universe: Brian Cox has me all inspired to live on in this extraordinary civilisation of ours. Well, till the next episode anyway.
The Marchioness of Ascot called. I finally worked up the courage to send her the link for Dotty. She likes it – that means a huge amount to me. She is some woman for one woman and I can’t wait to see her in few weeks. I don’t know how she’ll feel when she finds out I don’t drink anymore. She might disown me. She likes to get me drunk.
I don’t have an issue with alcohol, I’ve always suffered too badly with hangovers to be an alcoholic. Like puking all day and three day migraines. This year I had a few glasses of wine with my Michelin Star dinner the night before my birthday and spent Saturday, January 25th dying, in the Irish sense of the word. It was a disaster and the last night out Quarter Pounder and I had together. No wonder he dumped me. I was shit fun. So I haven’t had a drink since. People think I must be a recovering lush. Irish people always assume the best or the worst when it comes to booze.
There are things to do tomorrow that I’m nervous about. Nothing big or dramatic or testing for healthy people but a cause of unease for a walking ground zero like me. But I feel ok and I think I can get through it. I did mammy stuff today, ElsaDaughter got a facial out of me, jammy. We ate dinner together (I made the salad, does that count?) and I told my friends and big sis about what’s been going on, or at least provided them with the link to find out. Despite a blip (forgive me Tom?), it was a good day.
Thanks Professor Cox, your philosophical physics was lovely.