Wednesday, on which I did not mend the fence
Today I got woken up early by a bored cat boxing my nose, but failed to capitalise by getting up similarly early; but listened to Liza on the radio and made it down to Albany Rd and got all but one of the items on my shopping list, and made it back home in time to have a shower before heading into town to meet bloodflowerbill; but before I left the house and while I was drying my hair I took a look at the world wide internet and read something that I really really wished I hadn't, and consequently had a gasping sobbing fit at home during which I almost threw up (charming), and after which I let slip an inappropriate number of tears from behind my sunglasses on the way into town on the bus; but I met Bill which was lovely and we saw "Little Miss Sunshine" which was excellent, funny, poignant and nothing whatsoever to do with Roger Hargreaves; and I meant to buy a yoga mat but didn't, and ended up getting onto another bus in order to pick up my bike; but before I managed that I pulled out a hair clip and knocked off my shades which broke;
so I threw them out, and did lots more crying (not over the glasses), and it was all very very sad and painful, but a little bit good too, which, if not quite compensating for the soulwrenching agony, at least reconfirmed to me that I'd done the right thing, once upon a time ago, and at least a lot of the times since; and I set off cycling home and was a bit wobbly but glad of the sunshine, and then found myself locked in the park; so had to hoist the Pollycycle over a fence nearly as tall as me, which I did very inelegantly, but not as inelegantly as the way in which I hoisted the Pollyjackson over the fence; and rode the rest of the way home, under deeply blue-greyed ominous but rainbow-arced skies; and when I got home I had a small but satisfying moment of blow-torch catharsis in the back garden, before having two pieces of Madeira cake and two cups of tea while listening to The Archers; then I came upstairs and curled up with the cat to read for a bit but was so tired I dropped off for forty minutes, and woke up to discover two, hard, fence-inflicted bruises on my left thigh; and I cried a while, and tried to do some eyebrow plucking, but was stuck for owt to pluck, and instead got narked by the Goth's unnecessarily loud music playing (though a bedroom-skulking Goth, she is not a fourteen-year-old and I'm not her mother, so she frankly has no excuse); and was stalwart and bloody-minded in the face of great temptation; and thought about pie and decided not to go back to bed just yet though I wanted to, because of trying to maintain sensible sleep patterns &c., and moped over the fact that the digibox is refusing to play, so no multiple choice distracto-telly for me; and bashed this out to try to empty my head, and bashed some pictures online to try to empty my phone, and so here's a typically foreshortened-shoulderish self-portrait I (duh...) took earlier:
so at least this entry is multiply (doubly?) illustrated even if entirely chaotic, ill-structured, and no fun to read. And yes, I do realise I look fairly godawful illustrating disabled sunglasses above. But I thought that the picture was entertaining enough to negate my rub face.
Time for bed, where I will hope to be swiftly embraced in the arms of sweet oblivion.
so I threw them out, and did lots more crying (not over the glasses), and it was all very very sad and painful, but a little bit good too, which, if not quite compensating for the soulwrenching agony, at least reconfirmed to me that I'd done the right thing, once upon a time ago, and at least a lot of the times since; and I set off cycling home and was a bit wobbly but glad of the sunshine, and then found myself locked in the park; so had to hoist the Pollycycle over a fence nearly as tall as me, which I did very inelegantly, but not as inelegantly as the way in which I hoisted the Pollyjackson over the fence; and rode the rest of the way home, under deeply blue-greyed ominous but rainbow-arced skies; and when I got home I had a small but satisfying moment of blow-torch catharsis in the back garden, before having two pieces of Madeira cake and two cups of tea while listening to The Archers; then I came upstairs and curled up with the cat to read for a bit but was so tired I dropped off for forty minutes, and woke up to discover two, hard, fence-inflicted bruises on my left thigh; and I cried a while, and tried to do some eyebrow plucking, but was stuck for owt to pluck, and instead got narked by the Goth's unnecessarily loud music playing (though a bedroom-skulking Goth, she is not a fourteen-year-old and I'm not her mother, so she frankly has no excuse); and was stalwart and bloody-minded in the face of great temptation; and thought about pie and decided not to go back to bed just yet though I wanted to, because of trying to maintain sensible sleep patterns &c., and moped over the fact that the digibox is refusing to play, so no multiple choice distracto-telly for me; and bashed this out to try to empty my head, and bashed some pictures online to try to empty my phone, and so here's a typically foreshortened-shoulderish self-portrait I (duh...) took earlier:
so at least this entry is multiply (doubly?) illustrated even if entirely chaotic, ill-structured, and no fun to read. And yes, I do realise I look fairly godawful illustrating disabled sunglasses above. But I thought that the picture was entertaining enough to negate my rub face.
Time for bed, where I will hope to be swiftly embraced in the arms of sweet oblivion.