Health and Efficiency

I am still waiting for the bloody washing, so I might as well bore you with an update on my health and well being.

I am alive.

I am never healthy. As we know, I have a permanent residency on the Chaise Longue of Death which is situated by the French windows so that, as I die, I can watch all the flowers blooming in the garden without me.

It is all very French and existential.

But with crumbs, and cat hair.

And a staunch refusal to wear a beret. Nobody looks good in a beret. Not even Kate Moss.

My plan to lose half a stone was going quite well. Then I went out to London for the day with Andrea. All I can say is that she is a terrible influence on me.

And that is why I love her.

And today I woke up ragingly hormonal and covered in spots as big as Jupiter and/or Brian May’s gigantic hair, whichever is bigger (I suspect Brian may win), and I thought: ‘What’s the bloody point?’ and fell face first into ciabatta, and cake and pizza.

People who care about such things and to whom their body is a temple, people who voluntarily eat bran muffins and say they are delicious, will nod here and say: ‘you will be sluggish.’

Sluggish is a word healthy people use a lot. Particularly when it comes to describing me.

Only slugs are more sluggish than me.

Perhaps the solution is to put salt on my tail and watch me shrivel up.

Mostly, other people say that I am ‘pale’. They do not mean this in an ‘interesting’ way. They mean it in a ‘close to death’ sort of way. They usually follow this up with some vague reference to my vegetarianism.

Until I point out that I am not a vegetarian.

Fear not. For I am not pale at all at the moment. Mostly I am sallow, with huge, dark rings round my eyes. This decidedly yellow wallpaperish hue is only alleviated by the angry redness of the nine thousand spots I am currently breeding across my chin, the back of my neck and into my fecking hair line.

Don’t tell me not to pick at them.

What is the point of having a spot if you cannot give it a damn good poke?

When Jason gets home, he will be able to read the first chapter of Edwin Drood merely by running his fingers across my features.

Wot joy.

The hormones are combining with the madness of a woman already under huge emotional stress from an utter failure to cope with change in a graceful, Audrey Hepburn style way, to turn me into some kind of angry shark type lady. If shark type ladies try to eat you up in one bite and then cry all over you and say they’re sorry, they don’t know what came over them.

Before trying to poke you in the eye for breathing too loudly.

Don’t come round for tea. I shall hoist a pair of Jason’s pants out of the bathroom window when I am feeling better, as a sign that normal visiting hours can resume.

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