The slings and harpoons of outrageous fortune
Sorry for myself first thing, sick of pain and feeling my whole life impeded. Hobbled slowly off to the doctors and had time in the waiting room to twice listen to a 20 minute meditation tape. I at least felt centred after this, and had visions of Moulin Huet valley in Guernsey. Snapped out of this to find the doctor prescribing me a stiff five day course of steroids.
Mad people are liberally sprinkled along London Road. I effortlessly blended-in, hobbling and scowling on the way home. When it began to rain it also gave me the opportunity to wear Lorraine's ill fitting wet top, as she had left home with mine.
I paused for a coffee and a sandwich in a cafe and listen to the last two chapters of Moby-Dick. Yay for Moby-Dick who strikes back on behalf of benighted sperm whales/writers everywhere offing Ahab and sinking his ship Peqod. You feel in need of a shower after reading Moby-Dick to wash away all the whale grease, gore and caked sea salt. An amazing book. Later, I started Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf -- a short interlude before I tackle Ulysses.
Home to Sonia, who comes to clean once a week, clearly traumatised. As I was out I had not been able to tell her not to bother with Betty's room. She came downstairs waving her arms around to convey the full horror of Beth's floor-based wardrobe system, Peter! The clothes! she said. I don't know which is DIRTY and which is CLEAN.
Luckily the steroids started to reduce pain and swelling within hours. But they also zonked me to sleep. Lorraine and Betty busy sorting out wardrobes this evening, and that football isn't going to watch itself...
Marvelling over a piece of poetic writing by a seven or eight year old child that Lorraine had brought home for me to see. Some phrases: "...amongst the darkening skies fireflies start to come alight and dance among the squinting stars... Listen, can you hear something? It's the sound of crickets rubbing their pea-green legs together." Amazing little girl.
Mad people are liberally sprinkled along London Road. I effortlessly blended-in, hobbling and scowling on the way home. When it began to rain it also gave me the opportunity to wear Lorraine's ill fitting wet top, as she had left home with mine.
I paused for a coffee and a sandwich in a cafe and listen to the last two chapters of Moby-Dick. Yay for Moby-Dick who strikes back on behalf of benighted sperm whales/writers everywhere offing Ahab and sinking his ship Peqod. You feel in need of a shower after reading Moby-Dick to wash away all the whale grease, gore and caked sea salt. An amazing book. Later, I started Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf -- a short interlude before I tackle Ulysses.
Home to Sonia, who comes to clean once a week, clearly traumatised. As I was out I had not been able to tell her not to bother with Betty's room. She came downstairs waving her arms around to convey the full horror of Beth's floor-based wardrobe system, Peter! The clothes! she said. I don't know which is DIRTY and which is CLEAN.
Luckily the steroids started to reduce pain and swelling within hours. But they also zonked me to sleep. Lorraine and Betty busy sorting out wardrobes this evening, and that football isn't going to watch itself...
Marvelling over a piece of poetic writing by a seven or eight year old child that Lorraine had brought home for me to see. Some phrases: "...amongst the darkening skies fireflies start to come alight and dance among the squinting stars... Listen, can you hear something? It's the sound of crickets rubbing their pea-green legs together." Amazing little girl.
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