Having an absolutely terrible day, 98% of which is in my head and about my head, I feel there is merit in exploring the Wurzel Gumming option here. I should bin off this head, the head that is full of self loathing, bleak despair and sobbing, and which is trying to have a migraine, and put on another, nicer head.
I’m not vain. I don’t mean a prettier head, although removing the eye bags that when I look at them always makes me think of the line ‘four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire,’ would not come amiss. I just want a head that will leave me in peace to get on with things, instead of one which made it almost impossible to cut up a leek without severing a finger thanks to spectacular visual migraine effects or which meant that as I swept the floor, I cried all over the broom.
To be fair, this is not really head related. This is chemical menopause withdrawal related, and there was never an episode of Wurzel Gummidge where he whipped out his uterus, slung it on the muck heap and skipped off into the sunset with Una Stubbs.
There should have been. It’s all I’m saying.
In real, non fucking with my head withdrawal life, things are actually fine. I managed to de-stick the kitchen floor and get rid of some of the smell left by five trillion youths all bedding down in every nook and cranny of the house, leaving me with piles of assorted bed clothes to be laundered. I mean, it’s still pretty grim, domesticity wise, but it is less eye waveringly immediate grimness, and more the subtle essence of grim. I can live with this.
I have finished reading the Vagenda, which is excellent, and funny about things which are really not funny at all. I like this in a book. I like this in a person. Without humour about things that are awful I really would have to move to Mars, given how terrible things are in the world at large at the moment. I am now ploughing through a book about Alexander Hamilton. I feel very strongly that Alexander Hamilton is not my bag, however I got the book to review, hoping that Tallulah would love it. She doesn’t, and now I am obliged to finish it. The good thing is that it is an easy read and it will all be over soon.
I keep watching a gif of a shrew caravan. This is not shrews travelling about in a motorhome, parking in lay-bys and arguing over who has the top bunk, which would actually be brilliant. It’s more shrews being intrepid by holding onto each other’s tails and pootling about nervously. I am finding it very soothing, despite the ear worm of the words ‘shrew caravan’ replacing ‘pink cadillac’ as my ear worm.