less like a victorian lady, more like a myotonic goat
Well, it turns out that despite my best intentions working 45+ hour weeks continues to be the death of my internet habit.
On the other hand, fainting for the third time in as many weeks and spending the afternoon in St. Mary's and essentially getting told by your work to spend the next day at home because you are less of a liability to them that way, breathes new life into my relationship with social media.
In other news, no one really knows why I keep losing my ability to maintain verticality - best guess being that my blood pressure drops when I am standing and there isn't a plan in place for how to manage this other than drinking water and eating salt and using my assertive voice when hustling for seats on the train. I wish there was an easier fix, something that can be pointed at and corrected because while having me hit the ground like a sack of grain livened up Colleague Pete's afternoon, it would traumatise my children.
I have already offered Z the option of dissolving our union on the grounds of spousal defectiveness, but so far he is refusing to take me up on it.
In the meantime as I contemplate a future of holding up transport, frightening pedestrians and lying still until my head stops spinning I am considering investing in some discreet portable cushions, smelling salts and perhaps some helpful signage:
Perhaps cross-stitched on a scarf.
On the other hand, fainting for the third time in as many weeks and spending the afternoon in St. Mary's and essentially getting told by your work to spend the next day at home because you are less of a liability to them that way, breathes new life into my relationship with social media.
In other news, no one really knows why I keep losing my ability to maintain verticality - best guess being that my blood pressure drops when I am standing and there isn't a plan in place for how to manage this other than drinking water and eating salt and using my assertive voice when hustling for seats on the train. I wish there was an easier fix, something that can be pointed at and corrected because while having me hit the ground like a sack of grain livened up Colleague Pete's afternoon, it would traumatise my children.
I have already offered Z the option of dissolving our union on the grounds of spousal defectiveness, but so far he is refusing to take me up on it.
In the meantime as I contemplate a future of holding up transport, frightening pedestrians and lying still until my head stops spinning I am considering investing in some discreet portable cushions, smelling salts and perhaps some helpful signage:
Perhaps cross-stitched on a scarf.