Today has been the loveliest day. I’m exhausted and I have a headache but it was the best of the good days in a long while.
I love Fridays. “Who doesn’t?!”, I hear you say. I hate Sundays; I very much enjoy Saturday but Fridays hold the promise of a different life away from the smell of steaks in passageways. Eliot’s my favourite. He knew the shittiness of this prelude we call life. He was acquainted with the night. Like my man, Bob Frost. I wonder did anyone call him Bob? Maybe his kids, when they weren’t busy blaming him for everything. Or Nixon, when he held up his hat to shield Kennedy’s gift from the outright glare of the Washington sun.
The cliché. I’m not a fan. But when the poop hits the fan, you find out who your friends are. Cliché overload.
My godmother was introduced to Dotty last night. To say I admire that woman is an understatement. She has one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. One of those faces that has such perfect symmetry that you feel the urge to take out an inch tape and measure the angles for future reference in the Photoshop industry. Even her freckles seem aligned. I have never seen her in the same outfit twice (like my mother) but her style seems to exude the quirkiness and poetry of her personality. She’s been such an influence on me, she doesn’t even know it. In many ways, My Lady, the Queen’s Mother and my godmother, let’s call her The Librarian, could be sisters.
The flowers above are from The Librarian and her daughter, let’s call her Zara Phillips, although she is more better looking – stop you in your tracks eyes – she is quite the horse woman, hopefully she has better taste in husbands than her namesake. She made sure to choose soothing colours – no July poppies to trigger a Sylvia setback. We’re going to sit down and chat over the weekend. She’s so smart, like blow your mind smart. I hope I can keep up.
I felt fine after giving blood and got out of the city without a u-turn or impatient, beeping taxi driver in sight. I even had to drive past Quarter Pounder’s place. A twinge. But apart from that, nothing.
Then I was blissfully distracted for a couple of hours… But more of that anon. *taps nose*
ElsaDaughter and I got home in one piece and found ourselves at an Age Action bingo, eating egg sandwiches and drinking from plastic cups, catching up with old faces from our neighbourhood. Faces I know only as “Hello, Mrs. O’ Reilly” or “Lovely day, Mrs. Fitzpatrick”. Faces that ElsaDaughter is too young to recognise. The innocent and the beautiful have no… Oh enough of the poetry references. There’s nothing like an afternoon with older folk to cop you on to yourself.
Then My Lady took us out for tea. Not a cup of tea, dinner tea. Calling it tea is very English. I should reject that, on patriotic grounds. I must tell you about our family’s nationalism: real, old nationalism. Not tonight though – I’ve stuff to watch on BBC.
I mentioned in my earlier interlude that’s it’s World Mental Health Day. All I will say is please talk. Ask for help. Tell them if you’re not ok. Don’t do what I have repeatedly done and say “I’m fine, just tired” – it’ll catch up with you eventually, usually in the shape of a big black smelly welly stamping on your pulsing head, or something equally bizarre and inescapable.
Things have changed since the last time I cracked up, the last big crack up, I mean. You can tell people you’re depressed now without them beating you over the head with the black smelly welly and telling you you’re just looking for attention: “Snap out of it!”
It’s ok, you’re not alone.
And neither am I.
Today was a good day. And that will get me through tonight. I passed Doyle’s on Fleet Street today and re-noted this:
“There’s a good time coming, be it ever so far away.”
Hang on in there my little Dotty Rockers. X x *
*Dotty dispenses kisses infrequently, savour them.