Episode 34 – That’s Nearly My Age

Gosh I’m tired. AnnaBabyPuppy is being super annoying, whining and scratching at the door. Poor Sven has developed a coping mechanism whereby he ignores her completely. I don’t know how: she’s loud. But still he manages to zone out audibly and emotionally from her. I wonder is that what Quarter Pounder learned how to do with me. I hope he did, for his own sanity, I couldn’t listen to me.

My Lady was in the city today, I picked her up from her hospital appointment and we went to have lunch in town. She has a clean bill of health, phew. I need My Lady in fully functioning Mammy-chip-making, bargain hunting order. It was lovely. Apart from five minutes of sweats I was ok. I was there. And that superfood salad was, indeed, super.

There was a guy with Down’s on the wait staff. He was great, busy and chatting and enthusiastic. I like inclusion. I don’t see any benefit in an exclusionary society. Let’s all row in together. Unless of course you’re a gobshite. Then you should be excluded from society. I’m looking at you, or rather your shiny, oily arse Kim Kardashian. Really, is that all you can think of? And you have a fake tan steak on your back. Oh dear, am I a begrudger?

I just let Sven and Anna in. There go the leftover enchiladas.

I’m teeth clenching.

When I got back from town I went to bed. Well I went up the street here in our village first for the few messages (such an Irish down-the-country thing to say). And got changed. I thought I might be meeting a boy. But he flaked. Boys are so flaky. Well they are with me anyway. I wonder why.

I’ve been wondering how Quarter Pounder is getting on his new relationship. Well it’s not that new anymore. I don’t get how he can be good at a relationship, based on our relationship. Although deep down in my BlackPit I know he wasn’t good at our relationship because he never really wanted to be in it. Habit. Obligation. I guess now he’s a better boyfriend because he has a better girlfriend. I still think about him a lot. I try not to. I miss him. What do I miss? Nothing in particular, just the presence of him. Oh well. Plenty more fish in that sea.

Speaking of fish… Sven found one on the beach this morning. I thought it was going to be a repeat of StinkGate when he found one down on the beach at home and my car smelled like the Friday Fish Van was in town and its refrigerator was on the blink. But it turned out it wasn’t a fish, it was a thick stringy bit of seaweed. So that was a relief. Small mercies. Must’ve been the Moon Warrior Goddess looking down on my olfactory well being.

I’ve just remembered I’m meant to be fasting because I have hormonal blood tests in the morning. Whoops. Put away the Terry’s Chocolate Orange. And the pomegranate seeds. Interesting combination. Hashtag not really.

Time to listen to The Archers. Yes, I’m a hundred and two year old Home Counties woman with a blue rinse.

My Pieta session tomorrow is postponed. My PietaLady is away. The Dotty in me is semi-freaking out but on the other hand, I have time to get things done. Which freaks me out, having to get stuff done. It’s the “having to”. The guilt of not having it done already on top of the weight of thinking the list through.

But MINDFULNESS. What a buzz word. It’s omnipresent these days in the trendy world of mental health. It is becoming slightly… fashionable’s not the right word but, current. It’s funny the difference in now and twenty years ago, even five, even a year ago how attitudes have changed. While sometimes it’s terrifying when I remember that this isn’t a lock and key pink fluffy diary and people are actually reading it… People. Read. This. Oh my god. What have I done? Why didn’t I just buy a bloody diary?! But I promised myself I wouldn’t hide behind my smiley, made up, masked up FakeFace anymore.

I’m being mindful.

The past does not exist.

Turn the pain into power.

That’s thanks to The Script, who write new lyrics to practically the same melody and still get to play Croke Park. But maybe that’s begrudgery.

Forty eight hours till The Marchioness touches down and all hell breaks loose in its glamorous glory.

I have big things I want to write about. I’m building up a mental Want To Write About List in my head but I keep forgetting it. Sometines I’m walking along and I think of an opening sentence, a good one but it flits out like a butterfly (I’m terrified of butterflies) and then I end up writing drivel. Drivel is a good word. A bit like dribble. Dribbling words onto a page. Puking them up and rearranging them into barely coherent sentences. I wish someone would invent an app in your brain that tells you what you need to remember. Or if you brain could take a screen shot of a thought and put it in a file to be opened when you’re not kneading dough, shaving a week’s worth of stubble off your legs or trying to be sassy yet sweet on a coffee (I don’t drink fucking coffee!) date.

There was something I wanted to say but I’ve forgotten.

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