annanotbob's Diaryland Diary
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Una paloma blanca
This is my thought for the day:
which leads me to one of the highlights for me of last year's Glasto:
It's been a week or two since I managed to get the rubbish out to the front of the house in time for the binmen, so as part of Ren's working yesterday, we loaded up the car to take it all to the tip. The fuckers close it at 4.30 with a great big gate across the road. No leaving of the rubbish at your convenience - very Alice's Restauarant. So I left it in the car to take this morning and the bastard, bastard bags have leaked shitey, nasty fluid all over the carpet in the boot. Aw man, it stinks. It smells like the fucking tip on a hot day.
I was going to clean it, but first I had to drop Ren off on campus, head over for my session with R, then meet up with my fellow mentalists for a bit of a swim and some lunch.
I arrived home to find this letter:
Dear Ms Notbob
Thank you very much for your concern regarding the diagnosis. The mistake was made by Nice Nurse, your Care Coordinator who has finished her contract now. The diagnosis you have now is Moderate to Severe Depressive Episode without psychotic symptoms.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
Yours sincerely
Thank you
Yours sincerely (yes, again, I kid you not)
Dr Big Fuckwit Smartarse.
How does this piss me off? Let me count the ways. Let me not, I'm sure you can imagine. The scary thing is that I believed it and started interpreting my behaviour accordingly. Now I just feel confused, mistrustful and somewhat appalled at my own suggestibilty.
Apart from that it's been great.
Hence the need for a bit of Shirley Bassey. You gay boys needn't think you can hog all the big tunes to yourselves.
Anyway, I don't like how the legs on the table have come out. I'm going to paint over them and start again. Sara very diplomatically suggested if I'm trying to draw flowering vines twisted round a support, I should fucking well perhaps look at some pictures first. Yeah, yeah, I knew that.
Good bits of today:
Walking Millie past the pub when another dog barked at her and made the sound, 'Woof!' A bloke having a fag outside the pub nearly burst with excitement, 'Did you hear that? That dog actually said woof! He did, he actually said woof!' His excitement was pretty contagious - it still makes me grin to think of his silly, happy face.
Still on the walk I kept seeing girls in their night clothes. Young girls, pre-teen (just about), in jim-jams, slippers and dressing gowns. In the end I had to ask - their school had had a pyjama day, I was told, as if I was an utter simpleton for having to ask. Cool, I said, reducing my standing to below zero. Still cool. I can be patronised by kids without a dent in my vavavoom. Even when I'm not being paid for it.
Then when I was - well, I was going to say cooking dinner, but that would be a lie. We had jacket potatoes and broccoli, Sara's with frozen veggie sausages, mine with famous furniture-shop frozen meatballs. It was a bit dry so we used the broccoli water and granules to make 'gravy'. It was horrible. Horrible enough to make me think, I will cook dinner tomorrow, damn it, Celia, I will. Anyway, while I was labouring away there was suddenly an awful racket out the back, a real godalmighty squawking, the likes of which I'd never expect to hear so close and so loud.
There was one fucking great angry seagull on the roof of the shed, another fucking great angry seagull on the wall facing it (about two yards apart) and next door's skanky old cat, Pandora, cowering on the ground between them, growling. I stepped out, yelling and waving my arms at them and both those fucking great angry seagulls took off and flew STRAIGHT TOWARDS ME, in that tiny, almost confined, space.
I am proud to report that before I had time to think I let out a fiercely assertive, don't-even-think-of-it-buster kind of a noise, and moved forward, rather than crumbling to pieces like I do at something totally pathetic, like the voice on the way into the supermarket. They weren't even vaguely impressed by this, but they did divert, one to squat menacingly in the bird-bath, the other landing on the ground a few feet in front of me. Both still squawking, with intent. The noise attracted Sara, who leaned out of her upstairs window. We were both laughing and both appalled at the size and the nerve and the noise of the bloody things. I was kind of proud, and that contributed to the urge for a bit of Shirl as well.
So it's not been boring and it's stopped me thinking too much about Sam's dad going into hospital tomorrow to have a melanoma removed from where it has suddenly sprouted on his head.
I don't want to end with that thought, but it's half past one which really is time for bed.
Sweet dreams. I'll catch up with reading tomorrow xxx
|12:05 a.m. - 16/07/2008
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