I am still here.
Waves from a distance.
I would like, once again to enter my plea to become a menopausal, bearded woman who never has to have another period in her life.
I have spent the entire week feeling like death due to hormones, after a week and a half of feeling like death due to a stinking cold and the run up to hormones. It is, frankly a huge, hairy bastard of a time. This is particularly so given that I have been incapacitated by migraine for large parts of the week and have mainly existed in a haze of pain and co-codamol.
I have, however, sucked it up manfully, even helping a friend move house, which involved nearly being run over by a fairly large wardrobe which I had manhandled to the top of her stairs and only realised I could not get downstairs on my own when it started to whoosh away from me. That was an exciting moment of my life I never want to have to experience again. Luckily me and the wardrobe came out fine in the end though Narniaesque it was not.
I have also managed to wrestle the roasting pan out of the back of the saucepan drawer where it was wedged for a good forty minutes just as I needed to get to a frying pan which was in the same drawer. Dinner was woefully late, my arm is covered in bruises where I jammed it between the drawer front and a recalcitrant potato masher, and Jason had to come and help, but victory was mine in the end, as was the frying pan.
I have only given in to things in extremis or when faced with anyone who wants to talk to me about amateur dramatics. This fills me with as much pain as all the colds and periods in the world combined and sadly cannot be dealt with by popping various forms of Codeine. In two weeks time, when this dratted play is done I intend to get royally drunk for about twelve hours, and vomit into my own hair with exhilaration.
In the meantime, let me fill you in on some good things:
Nigel Slater has a new volume of Kitchen Diaries out. My copy arrived this morning and I have already wept with joy over the beauty of his writing. I love him. I love him. I love him. Any man who can make the thought of eating a pig’s cheek seem like a thing of beauty and a joy forever should be crowned king. I’d even buy a tea towel with his face on, and you know how I feel about commemorative tea towels and the monarchy.
I have paid my car tax. This has made me very sad because my bank account is sadly depleted, but also very happy for remembering that I had to do it, and you can now do it online, so I did not have to go back to the post office. I feel efficient and delighted.
I have now written 115,000 words of my book. I have also tentatively started editing it. Plus I have done a Twitter pitch for an agent. I did not get an agent interested, but I am very, very proud of myself that I did not hide under the duvet and pretend that I was not a writer and let the whole thing pass me by, which was what I was going to do originally. I have nailed my writerly colours to the mast. It’s a bit wobbly and lists to starboard, but otherwise all is well.