That is how much sleep I’ve had. I’ve been surviving on sugar and a caffeine today and have had about 7 cups in the last 18 hours. I’m sure that’s bad for you.
oh and my essay? Still not finished. It needs a couple of hours fiddling with and it’s waffly and I’m not sure I’m answering the question but it’s too late to worry about thatnow. It only needs to pass, not win me the Nobel Prize.
It’s 5 in the morning . I am on my fourth mug of sweet coffee and have completed about 30% of my essay that is due midnight tonight. I still have a full day of a particularly awful (audit, y’see) day at work between now and the deadline. I don’t hold out much hope for the remaining uh.. (calculates)… 60%.. um. no wait, 70%, since my brain has ceased all operations except the random eureka moments of inspiration that seems to float away the moment my fingers touch the keyboard. I get this excellent idea, I marvel at the depth of insight, I reach forward to type and get about four words before I have to admit…no… nope, it’s gone. Damn and I think it was almost brilliant. Whatever it was.
I just want to go to bed. I want to wrap myself up in my cozy duvet and fall into a deep, deep sleep but I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got to finish this essay and then be in the office early, even though I’ll also be staying late. And get this essay done and sent.
Normally I am a quiet type of person. Even a severe case of PMT sees nothing more from me than a slightly quieter demeanour than usual. I never shout, never get upset, few things rile me up and even fewer people annoy me because I always try to see why they may be behaving like that, and can usually find some reasonable excuse.
But these past three days I barely recognise myself. I’ve been coming home, ranting and waving my arms around and speaking in loud clear tones to Alan about my dat at work and finish by congratulating myself that today I did NOT commit homicide. That today, because of my self-control, I have escaped a possible life-sentence. I managed to not stand up from my desk, race over to the speaking blob and beat them to a pulp with the nearest piece of office equipment.
I. Am. So. Riled. Up. I find myself shaking slightly and feel flushed. I’m not used to this. I’m the quiet one. People tell me I always look serene and relaxed at my desk but they don’t know that when a certain nameless person walks into the room, I want to throw things at that person. And it’s not some personality clash. I have known this person for many years and have for most of them felt a sort of benign distrust of them, (which has subsequently been proven right) and the more I know of them, the less I can find excuses for their behaviour. Some people have either no conscience or no self-awareness. I think this person lacks the latter more than the former but has precious little of even that.
I could write reams and reams on the things I dislike about this person but what has me riled up right now (aside from the general pain in the arse-ness achieved without even trying) is that he is picking on someone in my office. And that bothers me.
I hate to see it go on but it’s not really my place to say anything. I get so angry I fantasise about speaking my mind to this person. I rehearse the home truths I would dish out but of course I would never do such a thing. Not only is it not my place hierarchically, but I also have better manners than to say things that would offend and I’m also a big fat coward to boot. Plus I’d be fired or have my life made hell of course.
I don’t know what to do but the next time this person comes into the room and tries to make the victim look bad by revealing some mistakes made, I think I might not be able to bite my tongue and have to actually say something along the lines of “why do you have to come in here and have a public strop about someone else’s work when we all know you haven’t a clue how its done yourself”
What makes matters worse, is that this person hold me in high regard. I can tell because when I say something and say it with conviction, I am listened to. And when I contradict, he actually goes away, thinks about it and then comes back trying to rephrase things so we’re both right, rather than prove me wrong. And sometimes I AM wrong.
If I dislike someone (this is rare but it happens) I generally expect them to dislike me back. Then it’s fair. It’s equal and we know where we stand. Despising someone who respects you and holds you in high esteem is just WRONG and I can’t stand it and it’s driving me potty.
Gargh! I need to get this person OUT of my head.
And this essay finished. Oh look, it’s 5.25 and light outside. and still only 30% done. Great.
see this vein on my forehead? *pop*
I always dread going to the hairdresser because it is rare that I step out of the salon with a smile on my face. More typically I am grumbling under my breath about the length (or lack of), am tucking overstyled bits behind my ears or am sporting a large poofy monstrosity because someone was a bit overzealous with the hairdryer and styling brush. Serioulsy, I came in to get my hair cut, not to be your showcase for gravity defying hair.
But the hairdresser I went to last time has had me impressed twice in a row. I even tipped the hairdresser and that’s unheard of (for reasons, see above) so I figures that maybe, just maybe this salon might actually know what it’s doing, so I went again.
When I arrived, my name was nowhere in the book, however. Flicking through the pages and the girl could find no sign of my name and yet I remember seeing her write it in.. She’s flicking through the pages trying to find it and is getting increasingly frustrated because she also remembers putting it in -but what is this? my name has been rubbed out and someone’s full head colour pencilled in instead. WTF? so a wasted journey then. Marvellous.
But ok no biggie. I said to the girl that I could come in next week. She was very apologetic and somoene above her had bumped me off the bookings (and not told her, making her look a right numpty)
So the following week I went back to have the wonderful hairdo I have come to expect from this place. I had even made sure I had enough for a tip on me.
What part of “I am growing my hair” sounds like “cut it off in great chunks”? My hair is now shorter than after my cut 10 weeks ago – in other words, she’s lopped off everything I’d grown since last time and then some.
I had also explained to her that whatever she did, the sides HAD to be long enough to tie back into a ponytail, because when I’m cycling I can’t have it flying in my face (dangerous, you know). The last hairdresser kept checking while cutting to make sure the sides were long enough but this one didn’t, so when she was cutting hair to my earlobes I mentioned this request again. She looked at me with a pained expression and pulled my hair back into the worst ponytail I’ve ever seen (sort of a half-hearted grip behind the head) and… the sides fell out. And now they keep falling out. I tried to be positive and say I could clip it but frankly the sides falling out is Driving. Me. Nuts. Especially on my bike because I keep getting my hair in my eyes when I’m trying to assess how close than four ton truck is to me.
Also, it is now so short that my hair is light enough to take on the random direction change it really goes in for. When it’’s long it’s heavy enough to stay straight but at this length it can never quite make up it’s mind which way to wave so often tries all directions at once.
stupid sodding hairdresser. Stupid sodding hair. Too short to tie back, constantly in my face, can’t even tie it into cute little plaits and have to wait months to get it to its old length again.
but on the positive side. I was sat in the chair and saw the be-tinfoiled headed lady next to me and pondered: hair colour. Wonder if I should try colouring my hair *. It looks kinda drab. But I don’t know what colour.
But as my hair was drying, all these golden tones came out and the natural highlights showed through and I thought: hey wow! I love my hair colour. Why would I want to change it?
so I hate my hair cut but I like my hair colour. That would be a consolation if my hair colour weren’t something I already got for FREE
hmmm… *fume*
*I think I must be the only woman in the western world never to have coloured her hair, not even temporarily
I opened the door on Saturday evening to a man who had a brown, smudgey face, smelled rather strongly of not sure what and the bottom half of his face was covered by a beard in a Calico cat style, with flecks of white, black and ginger. The man grinned at me rather alarmingly but fortunately I recognised his bicycle and thereby knew it must be Alan. After some bristly kisses I ran his bath and requested he shave (normally I don’t mind him not shaving and being stubbly; he can look rather sexy when he’s not shaved, but my dad had a full beard and I have a strong dislike for facial carpet as a result. It couldn’t come off fast enough in my opinion)
He bathed, we chatted, he shaved, I cooked an Indonesian curry and kept stealing glances at my lovely lovely man who is back home at last. I had forgotten how much I adore those blue eyes of his and the little creases at the corners when he smiles.
His poor, neglected feet were massaged, I quizzed him about the highs and lows of his trip. He showed me the card I had left in his luggage. He liked it very much, kept it accessible in his barbag (a bag that’s attached to the handlbars) and carried it all the way home.
Sunday we pottered around the house in our usual routine except there was a lot of long, lingering kissing going on. I gave him a complete all over massage with bergamot oil before bed until he was entirely under my control. I could have rolled up into a ball and bowled him out of the window, he was so relaxed. He cooed contentedly, despite the pain some of the massage inflicted on his knotted leg muscles and shoulders. He mumbled something about “what do I do to deserve you” and I really can’t answer that. Whatever it is, it can’t be that good cos aside from having good massage skills and cooking skills and (ahem) other skills I remain chronically untidy, embarrassingy clumsy and can’t mow the lawn to save my life – but he makes me happy and anyway, I love putting my hands all over him so the massage is a pleasure for both of us. I’m a bit of a lech at heart. I
Nothing is more tragic than waking up on Christmas morning and realising you are not a 5 year old child.
.
I can’t remember who said that but it rings true with me. Until now.
I’ve got this funny feeling. This butterflies mixed with an intense anticipation and joy. It’s like knowing you’re about to pick up your lottery win. It’s like being told that in a moment the universe’s secrets will be revealed, it’s like Christmas eve at age 5. There’s an almost palpable magic. And it’s all because he’s home tomorrow evening and I get to wrap my arms around him and plant soft little kisses on the curve of his neck. I’m practically giddy with excitement. Just to be able to smell his breath.
Of course he won’t have missed me nearly as much. He’s been off doing exciting things, cycling all day and spending the close of each day filling up his tanks on beer and having a laugh with the boys, his cycling companions. Each day will have been new and different and loaded with novelty and surprise, while I’ve been at home, only too aware of his acute absence in these familiar surroundings.
But my time alone has not been monotonous. I’ve been studying like crazy and am catching up on my lapsed studies. Last chapter was about how baby’s learn to understand and speak their native language (it’s fascinating). I couldn’t get the mower to work so had to resort to cutting the grass with shears (oh my aching back), I made all manner of edible goodies that are now in the freezer or fridge, I had my sister round for some in-depth man-talk and spent last night at the Foragers celebrating c-side’s birthday. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY C-SIDE!) and today I’m going to clean the oven and change the bedlinen for my true love’s return.
I’ll also be wearing my best pants.
I was going through some old photos yesterday. I found some of his cycling trips in Africa, America and Asia and some of family christmas and a hiking trip he did with his brothers. I also found some black and whites ones of when he was about 18. He looked scruffy and his hair was too long. He definitely looks better now than he did then. It’s funny to see those photos. I look at the image of this young man, a teenager so different a person and I wonder what he was like then. would I have fancied him at 18? (forget that I was 8 at the time). I have no idea but I do know those photos of him spark an emotional reaction in me and I hate having missed him. I didn’t find him until he was 39 and it makes me feel I missed out on knowing him until we met. I wish I could go back and meet him back then. I have the same feeling when I see photos of my grandparents in their youth. If only I could say hello in person to them in that time and have known them for longer.
Some of the photos are of a longboat trip he and his mates (the ones he is cycling with right now) and they’re such a bunch of lads. It’s all booze and cigarettes and no shirts, bad shorts, uncut hair. Maybe it’s better I didn’t meet him until he’d turned 39, had his hair cut, quit smoking and ditched the bad shorts.
wow, even writing about him and picturing him is making me miss him so much more. His absence is a physical feeling. No wonder the heart and liver were thought to be the seat of emotion. I’m almost nervous of seeing him again. It might all be a bit too much for me. This is most peculiar, considering I told both my previous boyfriends that I was like the tin man – not convinced I had a heart – and this when I was still going out with them. I’ve always been unemotional and for years believed I lacked something other people had, then figured it was an advantage. Alan has given this tin man a heart and she’s still learning how to handle that. I’ll be seeing him at the end of the week and I’m so excited I could burst.
The house is very quiet without him but he’ll be home this weekend. Can’t be soon enough, for me. Contact opportunities have been few and far between but when he managed to charge his phone until full we had two, TWO conversations. He had to stay outside to get a strong enough signal but also had to keep walking about to avoid the legendary kilt-wearing highland midges that had identified him as the protein source of choice. I’m touched. He could have stayed in the pub or gone straight to bed but instead he chose to ring me and put himself at the mercy of the local wildlife.
Apparently he is aching all over, having done 85 miles yesterday. I could never manage that sort of mileage in one day, especially if I had to get back in the saddle for more the following day and I’d probably not manage to phone home while walking about a field.
He’s my hero. And I want to kiss him all over. And he’s too far away
I have been busy, too. Trying to catch up on my OU, trying to keep my mother and grandmother amused although frankly she amused me more. Grandma’s memory lasts approximately 5 minutes. She just can’t seem to lay down memories for future retrieval so once it’s out of short term memory, it’s gone forever.
We went to see kidsis in her A Chorus line and when mum pointed out kidsis on stage grandma became confused “I thought she was sat here with us”. No, that’s Heather.
Five minutes later kidsis was in clear view again and mum pointed her out again “what? I thought she was sat next to you” No, that’s HEATHER.
And after the show, we shuffled out of the theatre to head toward the stage door to collect kidsis and grandma takes my arm and says “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you on stage. I always get you mixed up” I patted her arm and said “yes grandma. Let’s go see if we can meet kidsis at the stage door”.
It gets to mum but she lives with her. It doesn’t bother me as I consider these effects of poor memory as being beyond her control. Being old brings its limitations and puts burden on others but then again so so does youth (or rather, infancy). Children are an enormous burden and yet we don’t get angry at their limitations. I don’t like it when mum gets snappy at her but then again it’s easy for me to be all calm about it. Mum has these moments with her every day. It must get frustrating.
The show itself was enjoyable but not brilliant. I missed the brilliant one that she was in some weeks ago. Shame. People have been raving about that show and I found out about it too late and now she’s mad at me for having missed it.
Anyway, after the show, I caught the train home and some nice-looking chap struck up a conversation with me in the queue at WHsmiths. He asked me where I was heading to, so I told him. He was off to see his brother for his birthday bash but then it was his turn to pay so we wished each other a safe journey and parted ways.
Until I got on the train and so did he. He was getting off at the station I had to change at, so we chatted for the duration of the journey and it became apparent that he was trying to impress me, which was cute. Normally the only people who want to talk to me are the weirdos, but this chappy was articulate and friendly and likeable, and nice-looking to boot.
I was flattered by the attention and he gave me opportunity to leave the conversation if I preferred. I offered him my water when there was no refreshments cart and our chatting passed the time nicely. He told me he works in Paris and is in UK to visit his brother. He spoke of his brother affectionately but doesn’t get on with his sister in law. He told me he was 25 (looked about that). He asked me whether I had siblings. Oh yes, two sisters. One is two years older and the other is eight years younger. She’s 22. Quick as a flash he said “you don’t look thirty” and after that I expected him to find some excuse to leave but he didn’t. In fact once we got to the station his previously confident and relaxed manner became nervous as he asked me whether we could meet up again sometime. He was really nice and I was flattered, so as nicely as I could, I told him no. If I’d been single then I’d have given him my number, but since I’m not it wouldn’t be right. He nodded and kissed me on the cheek and with friendly smiles we parted company again and I went up the stairs to leave the platform.
My oh my. He really was very nice. I was glowing all the way home. And then Alan rang and I shone even more (he had tried to ring me when I was in the theatre but my phone was off. I listened to the voicemail and mum instantly knew wh it was, because she said I lit up when I listened to it . I can’t help that he does that to me. Just thinking about him makes me feel bright and alive.
