Oops. Very quiet again. In my defence, I’ve been ill. Cold or sinus infection or some such inconvenience disrupting my attempt at psychological reconstruction.
Monday was good. Tuesday was bed. Today is home with the family and get the hair sorted out.
When was my last update? Saturday night I believe. Another Saturday night on my own, but this time with a bottle of Actifed for company and as a side affect of my crappy blocked up skull, a good night’s sleep.
Sunday greeted us all with the news that our Minister for Health is gay. Ok? This is news? Lots of congratulatory posts streamed through my newsfeed commending Dr. Leo for his courage on speaking to Miriam so openly about his personal life. I reckon Miriam would have me spilling my deepest, darkest spit all over her lovely Cath Kidston equipped desk (or is she more of a Muji girl?), such is her all-woman, maternal warmth. I haven’t listened to the interview simply because it’s not news. I don’t care who in government fancies whom. What I do care about is how long it will take before I see an endocrinologist and how long John Knox spent on a trolley in A&E last September.
Fair play to Dr. Varadkar. Before Sunday I would have thought, perhaps in my educated, worldy ignorance that there were only four people on this island who still took issue with homosexuality and they lived under a gorse bush in Leitrim (don’t ask me why I picked Leitrim, I’ve never been there. You just don’t hear about much coming out of Leitrim, do you?). However, on further discussion with Posh and The Enforcer on Monday, it seems maybe I’m being too generous in my automatic assumption of the open minded tolerance of Twenty First Century Ireland.
They reckon Varadkar will now never be Taoiseach. I was convinced his decision to come out was politically motivated, assuring him party leadership and if anything would juxtapose him to the old guard corrupt blackguards portrayed in RTÉ’s mini series “Charlie”; he’d be set up as modern – mixed ethnicity, gay, a thirty something doctor with a middle class accent and a penchant for running half marathons instead of a mammy’s boy with an axe to grind and a subservient complex leading him to eat whole little greasy fatty birdies. But Posh and The Enforcer are clearly less naïve than me in my little hipster bourgeois world: we, the socially liberal think we’re in the majority but the sad fact is we’re actually in the minority and not everyone will be as nonchalant about a politician’s sexuality.
Are there really still people with a prick sized problem stuck on their foreheads? Why would anyone care who sleeps with whom as long as it’s consensual and not with a minor? Honest to an all loving God who gives a fuck? Can I lump in the pro-lifers too? Don’t get me started on the pro-lifers. My soap box isn’t sturdy enough for an all out societal rant today and besides, my hair is nearly done. #priorities
So are we having a marriage equality referendum in May? I’ve never missed a vote and I don’t intend to miss this one.
“Wolf Hall” starts tonight. ElsaDaughter and I are beyond excited. If I were the proud owner of a renaissance gown I’d wear it and eat sweetmeats on the sofa between nine and ten pm.
We watched Dr. Lucy Worsley on Seventeen Century Women last night: Nell Gwynne, Aphra Behn. A little pocket of female social liberation and power before we all became re-obsessed with vaginas and what their owners should not do with them.
I am trying to get my act together in the money making front. I’m starting a grind this evening and I’m going to be doing a bit of household upkeep for a pal. I hope she really needs it and it’s not just being too good a friend! Looking forward to it. The beginning of this week has been a bit horrible. How I detest being caught in a cycle of nonproductivity, low self worth, feeling useless, guilt. It comes up again and again at Pieta. I haven’t achieved anything. I haven’t got anything done. My PietaLady wants me to just learn to sit and be quiet but when I do that I just feel overcome with the guilt for not using my time to be productive. Laziness and failure are my greatest fears. It’s just that I’ve already failed because my motivation is crippled by fear.
I look at Dr. Leo. He’s 36. For fuck’s sake. 36 and look at what he’s achieved. Given time and support I think he’ll have a positive impact on the health care system. I’m 34 on Sunday and I can’t even. That’s it. Can’t even.
It’s now Thursday and I’m so bleugh. I have some sort of sinus infection/cough and a sicky tummy. I’m bloody freezing but with a lovely hot beetroot face.
Again, I was interrupted or sidetracked, or sufficiently uninterested in writing to find the time to finish a post.
It’s three am. I feel like a poop sample from “Winterwatch”.
We are going on a weekend break to a fancy hotel tomorrow: My Lady, ElsaDaughter and I. Nice spa, couple of Bombay Sapphires, good food. Sounds lovely doesn’t it? It’s the hotel we went to back in October when New Boy dumped me by text. What was his name again? There’ve been so many disasters since then they’re all merging into one Hulk like mess, only less attractive.
I really need to get to sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day. And like at Christmas,I’m meant to enjoy this weekend, being my birthday and all.
Another year, another step backwards.