I have lots of things I could say on this here blog, however at the moment they are all jumbled up in my swede and I can’t seem to untangle them enough to make coherent posts so for the moment I am just going to wing it and write as it comes into my head. Apologies in advance for drivel!
PG has two job interviews today and I am really hoping that someone sees his potential and snaps him up because it must be pretty soul destroying being an intelligent, outgoing, hard working, friendly man who gets passed over for even the most basic of jobs. I know it’s given him time to exercise his hobby muscle and and figure out what he’s doing with his life but it’s been tough going on him. It’s also been marginally tough on me having to get up in the morning and go to work knowing that he gets to sleep in, watch Jeremy Kyle and eat cereal in his pants all day. I’m not saying I want to lose my job, nor am I saying that all unemployed people do is lie around in their pants watching organised chav battles on telly but what I am saying is that the depressive side of me would *love* some headspace to not have to think about getting up in the morning or making myself look presentable and surviving a whole day of small talk at the office. My depressive side (I imagine it as the gremlin in the adult literacy adverts) could easily break the record for number of consecutive days spent wearing pyjamas and watching bad television whilst horizontal on the sofa. It’s a skill I tell you.
But in the spirit of not letting that side of me win, I’m trying to keep on keeping on with the book, the gym, the smiles, the chat, the everything that in short, keeps me vertical. The good thing about hitting a slump that has made me want to hibernate is that it seems I’m not the only one afflicted by this desire to get under the duvet and not emerge until May. For some friends it is SAD, for others it is a cataclismic collision of the winter blues, hormones and a smattering of family stress however the cause of it doesn’t matter to me, what matters is that I’m not the only one wishing to stop the World for a minute. I love that I got a text from a friend telling me she was hiding away but would emerge eventually, she in turn managed a chuckle when I sent a similar text that basically said ‘I love you but bugger off’. Our self imposed silence was ended last night with a rant and a giggle and a mutual understanding that sometimes you can’t even face talking to your best friend.
I’m glad the little thundercloud that had been following me around since the emergence of the tooth from hell has finally dissapated in time for Monday’s lunch with my agent in London. I’ll just run that past you again so you can drink in all the delicious stereotypical lunchy goodness with it. I, LongTallAlly, previously fat blobby layabout have managed to cobble together enough of a book that my agent wishes to take me to lunch to discuss it. This is amazing but this also does not happen to a bumpkin like me. I feel like a total fish out of water in London as if the residents will know just by looking at me that I don’t have a clue where I am or where I’m going and that I appear to have some sort of Tube map dyslexia. It reminds me of the episode of SATC where Carrie and Berger argue over the character in his book who wears a scrunchie and then they see a woman in a restaurant with aforementioned abomination in her hair and Carrie instantly knows that she is an out of towner. That is the epitome of how I feel in London.
I’ve been invited to a tweetmeet in Picadilly circus to which I would dearly love to go, partially as it is a fantastic chance to network with media/literary/journo/PR/London types but mainly, mostly and wholly because they all seem so bloody lovely however the aforementioned hair accessory of doom feeling that I get whilst being within the capital is a roadblock in the pathway to making the arrangements to attend. It pisses me off that losing a person’s worth of weight hasn’t made me into a supremely awesome being who bats away fears and worries in the blink of an eyelid and can drop herself into any social situation without so much as a backwards glance. I still just feel like my face doesn’t fit or my clothes aren’t quite right or my bottom is too big.
Unfortunately the more rational side of my being also knows that to expect the surgeon’s scalpel to have the same properties as a magic wand regarding aspects of my life I am not so enamoured with is tantamount to setting myself up to fail.