I think I’m doomed to have this cold for the rest of my natural life. Every time I think it’s finally decided to do one, it has a small, yet impactful resurgence in some way. It’s a bit like the news about Brexit. You hope it will fuck off or simply get better, but it does neither and after a bit it just makes you want to put your head in the oven.
I am so utterly bored of myself and my feeble health. I’d go and lie on the chaise longue of death (TM) but it’s covered in mountains of washing and I’d only fall off. Knowing my luck I’d break something and end up in plaster, and still have a fucking cold.
Despite this, dearest readers, I soldier on, because I am unutterably brave. I’m sure that if there was a medal for carrying on in the face of ennui, apathy and small yet annoying health issues, I’d be on one knee in front of the Queen, discretely coughing into a lace hankie as we speak. If there were a medal it would look like a small, golden pot of Vicks Vaporub.
Yesterday I went to the Unislam finals in Birmingham with Tallulah and my friend, Kim. For those of you who wonder what I am talking about, it’s a slam poetry event, which is organised by Kim’s son, the fabulously talented slam poet, Toby Campion. Toby works tirelessly all year hosting slam poetry events and inviting UK universities to compete against each other. It culminates in a three day event, the final of which was last night. This year was the biggest ever, and 25 teams took part. The standard was incredibly high and the event was brilliant. I am always amazed at how talented the performers are and how much of themselves they give to their poems and performances. I always cry at least once. There are funny poems too, in case you think I just go for the misery.
I was really looking forward to yesterday’s event but by the time we got there I was feeling rough, and had to take some pills (not even dried frog pills). By the time we got home I was feeling really terrible, and spent half the night nursing my impacted sinuses. When I finally fell asleep I had a dream that Emma Freud and I had started a three ring circus in my grandparents’ back garden in darkest Lincolnshire and were worried about how people were going to get there because there was only one bus a week. I woke up in a flap, only to continue to flap because I’d over slept. I was only slightly late getting Tallulah to the orthodontist, which was a bit of a miracle. I don’t think I’ve really caught up with myself since.
And I’m still feeling rough, which is making me grouchy. I am not ill enough to take to my bed and demand soup of the evening, but just ill enough to make everything difficult and a huge, hairy ball ache. I think I’ve been moaning now for three, solid weeks, and frankly that’s more than enough for me, let alone everyone else. I suppose the good thing for everyone else is that they can just put earphones in, or go out. I’m stuck with my moany old self all of the time, and I’m no fun.
In other news, I let the kittens out in the garden today. It is the second time I have let them out. The first time was about two weeks ago. It did not go well. Derek tried to kill them and ended up chasing Anorak down a gap between our house and next door’s. I had to poke her away from the gap with a stick and spent some minutes coaxing him out from a cob web infested corner. While that was happening, Ronnie P ran into the yard broom and nearly died of fright because it had bristles and it reared up at him. After twenty minutes we all went back inside and had a lie down.
This afternoon Anorak refused to go out at all and had to be carried out, whereupon he clung to Tallulah’s chest with all his claws and wept. In the end he sat in the doorway and killed a leaf, because that was all his fragile nerves could stand. Derek sat under a bench and sulked and Ronnie P found his bravery from somewhere and tore about like a loon, frisking through bushes, eating random bits of shrubbery and swinging off the pergola. He will probably end up with the shits from eating too many leaves, and if he doesn’t get that it will be a perforated bowel from eating too many twigs. Or both. I am just grateful that a) Derek has given up on the idea of killing him, probably because she can see that he’s such an idiot it will be quicker if he does it himself and b) he didn’t run into a fox (there are several in the vicinity, all of whom trot across the garden at various times of the day) or a badger yet. If he lives to see the spring it will be a miracle.
I popped in to see my mum and dad this afternoon. It’s my mum’s birthday tomorrow, but I am not going to get to see her then, so Tallulah and I took cake and flowers and presents and we had lunch together, which was lovely. The kittens ate a needle felted hare of mine a few weeks ago and my mum bought me a needle felted mouse to replace it, because she is a darling person. I vowed to keep it out of the reach of snackish kittens and brought it home.
Earlier I was carrying it about the house, looking for somewhere to put it where it won’t be hidden but it won’t be eaten. As I looked at the mouse he reminded me of someone, and I couldn’t quite place him, but I have just realised that he looks rather like Keith Brymer-Jones, the potter. This pleases me enormously and has also provided him with a name. I think I will make him a tiny hanky, because K B-J is a consummate cryer when it comes to perusing things of beauty and I’m sure I can find a small and suitably delightful pot for my own Keith to sob over. I shall spend my evening arranging a tableau and coughing. It will make a nice change. As it seems I am stuck being a Victorian consumptive again, and I have no piano to sit around, I shall make my own entertainment.