Procrastination is the name of the game today. I have to go out and do some errands. I need to use the car. The snow is finally retreating in favour of damp puddles, random ice patches and bitter cold, so I don’t really have any excuse, except that I have that hangover from childhood which means on cold days I hate, hate, hate, ripping my pyjamas off in favour of real clothes, and find every reason to put it off until the last minute. Hence blogging.
The cat feels about all this the way I do, and has spent the last three days tsking and moaning at the snow, the tip of her tail on a constant wag. Yesterday she ventured out approximately three inches from the French window in the patch where the heat leaking from the house had melted the snow. She stalked up and down the strip of decking, wailing and bemoaning her fate, her nose twitching for England as she smelled all the terrible smells and roared all the terrible roars. She was particularly outraged by the sight of a lone set of alien cat footprints sashaying across the snow in front of her, which was the cat equivalent of sticking the ‘v’s’ up and mooning her. She came inside to lay on the patch where the hot water pipes are closest to the floorboards and threw her paw dramatically over her eyes. It was too, too much. She has been a full on, snow diva.
In health news. My hospital appointment is on Friday morning. I await the thunk of the post on the mat every morning with trepidation, waiting for them to cancel it again. So far this has not happened, and we are two days away. Could it be that I will finally get there? It seems I might. Having said that, what will happen when I do get there is anyone’s guess. I have no idea what is going on with my blood pressure. I have gone back to ignoring it. It is making me less crazy. I will take less crazy over liable to explode any day of the week.
I have been on the verge of a cold all week, sore throat that sort of sulks about in the background making low, rumbling noises, but never fully committing. Snotty nose, just enough to sound snuffly and give me a thick head. All that jazz. I wish it would either bugger off or fell me and be done with it. As it is, yesterday, to add insult to injury, I woke up to two huge, blind spots on my chin, which make me look like a slipped Rudolph, and are all the attractive in the world. I also have a weird throbbing sensation in my ear lobe where one of my piercings has decided to randomly get infected, despite the fact that I haven’t put an earring in it for the last three months. My immune system seems to be waving a white flag. I have promised it a bun from the Jesus bakery if it rallies. In the meantime I have flung tea tree oil to the four winds and now smell as attractive as I look. Which is nice.
To further paint the picture of loveliness, hot flushes remain sporadic, but possibly on the wane. This could simply be down to the fact that the general temperature hovers around minus eight and is compensating. Sciatic nerve is being a bell-end, improving till it doesn’t. Occasionally I stride purposely about, sometimes I teeter because of ice. Other times I hobble about like a granny.
I feel like my health updates should be issued daily in the form of a bulletin. Rather like the shipping forecast. ‘Malin Head, variable, Sciatic nerve steady, Fastnet choppy, Hot Flushes rising etc.’
Sleep is slowly improving, which means that my mental health and ability to cope with the variables of my health forecast is also improving. I was still up until 2.00 a.m. but the quality of sleep I am getting is okish. Also, I am absolutely immersed in Tina Brown’s Vanity Fair diaries from the Eighties which are horrifying and absorbing and scurrilous, so this is helping the sleepless hours fly by. They’re particularly interesting because she writes about Trump and Murdoch, and why anyone is surprised that things have come to this pretty pass now, given how they (and Boris Johnson) were then, I don’t know.
In other news, Oscar has, of his own accord, put all his teddies away and rolled up his Winnie the Pooh rug, and has tidied a lot of his little boy things away. He’s been doing this for the past three days, occasionally asking me to put up a picture for him, or giving me something to take to the charity shop. His room now looks like a young man’s room. It is making me a bit sad, but also quite excited to see the floor again for the first time in forever. I may bust the hoover out as a special treat.
Tallulah is in full on festive mode, culminating in going to her friend’s house yesterday evening to put pyjamas on, drink hot chocolate and watch Christmas films, before coming home to do it again here.
As for Tilly, we saw her on Sunday night when she got back from her nomadic existence between work, her boyfriend’s house and college. She comes back to do laundry, eat all our chocolate and sleep like the dead before she goes off again. I believe she may be home this evening. There have been rumours. She is coming on holiday with us though, so I don’t feel too shunned. I would like to think it is because she loves us. I fear however, that it is because of the lure of the buns from the Jesus bakery. They have been on her bucket list for a few years running now. I don’t blame her.