England are beating the All Blacks. But this too shall pass, right?
Sonny Bill is back, looking sexy and fierce. Imagine carving yourself into such a physical specimen that you can walk straight back into a squad after switching codes and boxing heavyweights?
The size of George North. Just flicked over to the highlights of Wales v Australia. And the little baby face on him. Big muscly lump of cuteness.
Dan Carter (or Din Caaaher as ElsaDaughter thought was he was named for ages) is doing water boy. Nice face but too pretty for me. I like Sam Warburton’s warbeaten face. And Richie McRugged.
Looks like Wales v Aus is a more entertaining match – what eejit timetabled this series?
Ireland v South Africa at five thirty.
We were meant to be home by now with My Lady but we’re not. NoShow/The Photographer came to my village this morning for coffee. God love him, coming in on the bus in the rain, mortified after standing me up. Turns out he grew up in Doncaster. Great accent. Very, very smart, cerebral almost. The café was so full of screaming Harrys and Isobels with their middle class bearded hipster dads and aforementioned Michael Kors handbag owners I could barely hear him so he could have been talking shite and I just misheard big words. I had to do the “nod and smile” a couple of times. He’s too nice for me I think. Very gentle. And we all know Dotty seeks dickhead.
I think I need a DateBreak. In fact, I know I do. But there’s some void I’m trying to fill, as discussed yesterday, some need for power. How can I transfer that urge onto something else? Run. Get a flat belly. Tone that fat arse.
I’m afraid of running lately. This thing I loved so much – my refuge – has become a threatening “should”. I’m afraid I won’t be able to run. I’m afraid I’m not fit enough. I’m afraid to be alone in my head and when you’re running it’s proper stream of consciousness shit. Wordsworth would have been proud. Actually he wouldn’t because I have no interest in daffodils or clouds, or at least not writing about them.
Why do we sometimes say “skies”? Surely there’s only one “sky”?
Richie just got a try. He can try me anyday. Cue score puns.
We haven’t gone home yet because ElsaDaughter is still in bed. She must be awake by now. She was up late writing. She’s got more talent than I do after five years of training how to write effectively. She’s really good. But then she’s one of those people who can do anything and look fabulous while doing it. She could conquer the world with her smile and her wit, that kid. But she needs to get out of bed first…
I just saw a clip about a fifty year old rugby fan who died of a brain tumour and requested that his ashes be scattered from fireworks onto his local club pitch. What a send off. I want “That’s Life” played at mine, I may have mentioned that. And Bombay Sapphire, and everyone dressed up and remembering funny stories about me: falling over when I was drunk and not being able to get up because I was laughing too much; running out of petrol because I was talking too much and forgot to stop; finding my glasses in a box of cereal; doing terrible Alabama accents or thinking you drove onto a driving range. Don’t get soppy and proud and sad. And don’t dare fucking bury me.
But I’m not planning my funeral, although it will happen some day. It’s funny that I’m terrified of death, of a long illness, of knowing I will die but yet I was relieved to have my Get Out Clause. Contradictory. Like all human emotions. But sure it’s nearly Christmas, and I love Christmas. And then I might as well see in my thirty fourth birthday and then (avoiding Valentine’s Day) it’ll be ElsaDaughter’s birthday and sure then there’ll be a grand stretch in the evenings and sure by then, please God (says the wan who doesn’t believe), I’ll be feeling alive.
Wilson Phillips knew what they were on about: hold on for one more day.
Of course Dylan Hartley’s in the middle of the scuffle, always digging out the drama. Yes, I appreciate the irony.
I was nominated on Large Omniscient Social Networking Site to choose my five favourite photos – things/people that make me happy. I couldn’t pick just five, there’s too much love. Now I’m starting to the happy times without the grey must of an argument with Quarter Pounder dripping on to my memories,making a soggy mess of them. The past is crystallising. If it wasn’t Quarter Pounder it was another boy blight: feeling like I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t enjoy, I would have to justify, I would have to worry. This is what I need to work on – live, and love, for me, not in the hope of some tentative approval from a man. Or anyone else.
New Zealand are dropping a lot of balls. Unlike me, I’m picking them up, well I’m looking for them first.
The sleeping pill the PsychCons prescribed for me does not agree with me. The sweats are back like a rainforest damp and I think yesterday’s hot flashes are another side effect, repeating themselves today. They don’t even help me sleep. I don’t want to become dependent on sleeping pills but I’m so desperate for rest and a break from my brain at night time. It’s like switching off loud music or a strobe lighting movie, it’s a relief just to drift off and know you don’t have to listen to yourself or look at yourself for eight hours.
I heard about a young man’s suicide yesterday and I reacted like anyone would with a sense of helpless sadnesses and pointless loss. I couldn’t help but think of my family, sitting there staring into spatial disbelief while I had escaped into nothingness. A permanent solution to a temporary problem. The poor guy. If only he had talked. If only he’d trusted. If only, if only…
My heart is breaking for his family, for every family and friend and work colleague who’s been affected by the loss of a loved one. I lost two former students to suicide and I swear I racked my brains trying to think of something I could’ve written in an essay feedback or a “Hello, how are you?” on the corridor. Anything, something.
As the Samaritans Camden Street mural says…
If you want out, if you see no other way… Talk. To anyone, to someone. It won’t be easy and it takes pain and endurance to stick around. But look at me, I’m still here.
And New Zealand just won. See? It all works out in the end.
Come on Ireland.