On the side of Keats
Up early with Lorraine. Before I started work, I watched the final Peter Ackroyd documentary about The Romantics, which allowed me to revisit my various opinions about them. Soulful Keats has always spoken most directly to me, I think some of his best poems arrive somehow still dripping with silence as if they had been hauled out of a dark psychological sea. Ackroyd emphasises his empathy, which is think is right. In contrast Byron, portrayed as a prototype celeb, leaves me almost completely unmoved. He mocked Keats as a Pissabed, and accused him of mental masturbation. Byron, in my opinion, was a flash git.
Then on to my accounts, which refuse to be finished despite being manacled to my desk for hours . In the afternoon I worked on more ailment stuff for the agency, and was pleased to be doing it as financially things will be squeaky as a pipistrelle for the next couple of months. Lorraine needs to tighten her belt too. After discussing this for a while, we began planning a few days in Guernsey. There has, we reasoned, to be some light at the end of the tunnel.
Spoke to Betty twice today: wanting an opinion on broadband and to see if she had any post. She seems to be quickly sorting herself out. Lorraine working tonight at home as she has to focus on her National Professional Qualification for Headship work that she needs to do in the next few months. Then an earlyish night, after a fortifying glass of wine.
Still unable to hear anything through my left ear. I am also treating the right one so it can be syringed and there are now times when the sounds or the world are reduced to mere skull vibrations. It is giving me an uncomfortably real insight into the life of people like my friend John who have partial hearing. It is socially alienating, and frustrating especially in crowds, and the world seems at one remove.
Up early with Lorraine. Before I started work, I watched the final Peter Ackroyd documentary about The Romantics, which allowed me to revisit my various opinions about them. Soulful Keats has always spoken most directly to me, I think some of his best poems arrive somehow still dripping with silence as if they had been hauled out of a dark psychological sea. Ackroyd emphasises his empathy, which is think is right. In contrast Byron, portrayed as a prototype celeb, leaves me almost completely unmoved. He mocked Keats as a Pissabed, and accused him of mental masturbation. Byron, in my opinion, was a flash git.
Then on to my accounts, which refuse to be finished despite being manacled to my desk for hours . In the afternoon I worked on more ailment stuff for the agency, and was pleased to be doing it as financially things will be squeaky as a pipistrelle for the next couple of months. Lorraine needs to tighten her belt too. After discussing this for a while, we began planning a few days in Guernsey. There has, we reasoned, to be some light at the end of the tunnel.
Spoke to Betty twice today: wanting an opinion on broadband and to see if she had any post. She seems to be quickly sorting herself out. Lorraine working tonight at home as she has to focus on her National Professional Qualification for Headship work that she needs to do in the next few months. Then an earlyish night, after a fortifying glass of wine.
Still unable to hear anything through my left ear. I am also treating the right one so it can be syringed and there are now times when the sounds or the world are reduced to mere skull vibrations. It is giving me an uncomfortably real insight into the life of people like my friend John who have partial hearing. It is socially alienating, and frustrating especially in crowds, and the world seems at one remove.
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