I am, as you might have guessed from the more than usual sub par blogging going on at the moment, pretty miserable.
I have nothing to be miserable about, which is why I am mostly trying to ignore it, work around it, put magenta jumpers on it and get on with stuff, because life doesn’t stop even if you do want to weep into your knicker drawer every thirty seconds for no apparent reason.
I think it may be hormonal. Hormonally speaking, last week was a massive angry wildebeest stampeding through my life. It might also explain why I was miserable the week before. It doesn’t really explain why the misery continues this week.
I do have incredibly sore throat and ears, and I wonder whether hormones may be being preyed upon by the onset of a winter cold, exchanging one set of misery making physical symptoms and hormonal hoopla for another. It certainly isn’t helping.
Nor is the weather, particularly the low, greyness of the sky and the darker and darker afternoons.
It may be to do with Christmas. As you know, I am not a fan. I have done some desultory shopping and the rest of it nags at me from the back of my mind every day, making me feel slightly oppressed and not at all full of Christmas cheer.
I want to commit murder every time someone posts a picture reminding me that it’s only 458 shopping days until next Christmas because surely I would have done all this year’s Christmas shopping in August.
By the time Christmas rolls around I will be Father Jack. Sitting in a filth encrusted armchair, sucking bottles of whiskey down in a single gulp and shouting ‘Feck’ every time I see a piece of tinsel.
I became insane reading an article about the closure of Laurence Lllewellyn-Bowen’s heavily advertised Winter Wonderland.
1. Why the fuck would you let him near anything to do with Christmas? He designs Palladian knolls and rococo wallpaper. He is not known for reindeer styling.
2. Winter Wonderland only works in a country where they have proper winters. It never, ever works off a lay-by in Sutton Coldfield.
3. Anything that involves incessant queueing, and you know it will, is not Wonderland. It’s shit.
I became even more deranged reading the comments from angry punters under the article. Particularly chafing was the section where two, angry, illiterate women started having a go at each other, and one accused the other of knowing nothing about ‘Grotto Etiquette’.
It was at this point I wanted to shut my head in the gas oven. Except I wasn’t sure what the right ‘gas oven etiquette’ was. So I didn’t. For fear of a Daily Mail reader lynching me on my front path if I didn’t do it properly.
So I am miserable.
I am not depressed. If I was I would be lying in bed, hiding under the duvet, stricken rigid with unhappiness. Things could be worse. I am eating, sleeping, functioning and going through the motions. It is difficult, at the moment, daily life. Even the best of things, and there have been some lovely things recently, make me a bit teary. Sadness just wells up, ever present under the thin layer of what passes for normality in these parts.
It will pass.
And so will Christmas.