It has mostly been a shitty week, punctuated by moments of loveliness.
Let’s start with the gloom and end on a high note.
The crappy bits:
I have felt spectacularly ill for most of the week.
I need to go to the Dr and get a blood test. I am probably anaemic again, as I look like crap and I can’t stay awake for more than five minutes. I have been putting it off because I hate going to the Dr. But I must go. POOH.
I fell asleep at my desk yesterday, with my coat still on. I slept for an hour and a half before Jason woke me and sent me to bed. I have been being sent to bed every night. This is rubbish.
Mentally I am feeling fairly unhinged at the moment. This is, I suspect, largely hormonal, which means it will pass. It may also have something to do with probably being anaemic, and falling asleep a lot. Despite knowing why it is happening, it is not easy to live with, and I am finding it hard to remain positive when mostly I am either asleep, or wanting to either a) cry or b) shout or c) shout and then cry.
The weather is unrelentingly awful. I realise I am lucky. My house is dry. I am not about to be inundated by flood water and I have not had the roof of my house blown asunder by lightning strikes. I am however, freezing for most of the time and my shitty circulation means that I have spent large parts of every day not being able to feel my toes because I am so cold. I am sick of everything being damp too.
On the positive side of things.
I have enjoyed foraging for treasure with my parents. I bought a print by ace wood cut artist Garrick Palmer. It looks a bit like this:
But is called Chalk Fields. I love it. I am still carting it round the house seeing where I can hang it.
I have eaten lunch out every day this week. I used to do this a lot. I hardly do it at all any more, and five lunches in a row is gluttony of a splendid nature. I whole heartedly approve of myself, and wish there were more weeks where this happened.
I have seen lots of friends this week who I haven’t seen for months, despite the fact that I have been falling asleep all over the shop. I have been quite sociable in between bouts of narcolepsy.
I have been to my second flamenco lesson, which I was marginally less shit at, and my feet hurt less in, and I was able to be nice to the teacher and give her a lift home when she had been planning to wait for a bus in a torrential downpour which made me feel far more charitable and lovely than I actually am.
I have not given up and hidden under the duvet cover of deepest gloom, which is what I wanted to do every, single day this week. I have literally had to talk myself out of bed every morning with the promise of some wondrous thing or other on the horizon. Part of me wishes I had stayed in bed and just wallowed in self pity. The other part of me is going ‘Yay team!’ and waving pom poms because I was very brave, and like Piglet, I did not blinch in the face of danger.
It is Friday night. I do not have to get up in the morning. I have wine.
I am going to see Tom Hiddlestone in Coriolanus as part of NT Live tomorrow. I am excited. I haven’t been to the theatre for ages, and despite Coriolanus not being my favourite or my best, this particular production has had cracking reviews.
I have read some books. I have reviewed some children’s books over on my literacy blog, which I really enjoyed. I also read Brenda Blethyn’s memoir, ‘Mixed Fancies’.
When I am feeling particularly down I like to read celebrity memoirs. They are easy and non taxing and I am not required to take a test, or think deep, philosophical thoughts. I like ones with lots of celebrity gossip, or ones that sound like you are actually having a chat with the person who has written them. I also like really, really terrible car crash style ones written usually by eighteen year old soap stars who haven’t really done anything yet to warrant a memoir and which consist mostly of Hello magazine style photos and big writing.
Brenda Blethyn’s book was given the job of cheering me up because I loved her in Secrets and Lies and the first page read like you were having a gossip with your mate. I enjoyed the rest of the book for the same reason.
She was brought up as one of a huge brood of children in a very poor household. Her mother was quite a character. I particularly loved the story of when Brenda and her sister took her mother to a party at which posh people were in attendance. She recalls:
‘ Mum was making conversation with Laticia and Hermione, being carful to pronounce her aitches. We were all on tenterhooks in case she dropped a clanger and let a few expletives into the conversation. But she was getting on famously until she was overheard to say ‘Ho yees. Hi think breastfeedin’ is much better for the little chivvies. Hive always thought so. Hive see as much to Velry, aint that right Vel? Bout breastfeedin’? Mind yew, when hi he’d my Brenda she sucked so hard my tit come up like a pickled cabbage.’