Short post this evening because of a throbbing migraine that has caused me to lose all interest in anything other than drugs and cups of tea.
Migraines make me confused, and today has been something of a muddle.
This is my second attempt at writing this. I had made some decent headway and had completed almost half a page when the whole thing completely and inexplicably vanished, sliding off the screen like melting ice cream, never to return.
I spent so much time trying to work out how to retrieve it that I had completely forgotten what I had written, and so couldn’t write it again.
It has not been a very successful day.
I was not even terribly successful with the laundry, which ought to be the simplest of daily tasks. I pegged it outside in the sunshine this morning, and then forgot all about it until Oliver was getting ready for work and wondered where his jersey might be. It was dark by then, and a frost had settled, and the guilty answer to the question was: umm, in the garden. We dashed outside, where the washing had become so stiff it would not have been pleasant to bang your head on it, and hung it over the stove to defrost.
I think it was almost dry by the time he had to set off.
I managed to do some painting, in a vague, dauby, uncreative sort of fashion, squinting absent-mindedly at the smears of paint on my trousers and occasionally trying to wipe them off with my handkerchief, I hope I am in a better state tomorrow because matters are becoming very urgent. In fact I have managed to finish a second calendar. The first one is still sitting in the hall. I was supposed to be going to Canada for Number Two Daughter, but FedEx failed to appear to collect it yesterday, and have apologetically promised to try again tomorrow. They had jolly well better, time is running out, and the first day of Advent will be upon us in no time at all.
I have tried to impress the seasonal urgency of the matter upon their ChatBot but it does not seem to care.
It has all been a bit difficult. I have been muddling through the day in alternate states of pulsing misery and mild, drug-induced euphoria, neither of which are terribly productive. Just about the only thing that I actually achieved was taking my prospective-refugee paperwork for the Irish Government around to Glyn at the chemist, who very kindly signed it all and obligingly stamped it with a stamp that promised it had all been legitimised at Windermere Pharmacy.
They can be trusted with drugs, so they must be properly responsible.
He did not even ridicule the photographs, which I thought was generous given that they are quite clearly of some mad old lady who had not thought to brush her hair first.
I give up. I am going to drink some more tea and possibly slope off the taxi rank early.
I think an early night might help.
