The end is in sight, and last week I actually got a bath in my own bath, with hot water and everything. Cyanide Pill bath bomb, since you asked, a Lush Oxford Street exclusive, tho this one was dusty and a bit lacklustre, and didn’t snap crackle and pop like the one before it. Who cares, tho. Own bath.
I’m tired and cross, and I fucked up in a small and avoidable way this morning. I got all anxious and wracked with guilt about it, which only ever means I need more sleep. Happily, I get two and a half days off from tomorrow afternoon. Three nights in my own bed. Lounging on my balcony sofa in the rain. I don’t care.
I realise I make it sound like I am locked in an institution. I’m just working away from home. It’s fine. New people, new situations. And I miss my old people and my usual situation, that’s all.
My usual life, it’s a good one.
This doing new things thing, it can be tiring, especially when I am surrounded by people who are very glad to have me, but don’t know what to do around a cripple. The answer is: Nothing. Do nothing. But they don’t know that, and they mean very well but that makes it harder to deal with because I can’t just swear at them when they do patronising shit. Like negotiating Brexit again.
The upshot of that is I did something brave and, in consequence, found an ally. Excellent stuff, well done me. Encouraged by the ally, tomorrow I have to initiate an awkward conversation with someone else, and I really wish I could avoid it altogether, but I am not the evasive type.
Right now I want to go and live down a well. Tonight’s lukewarm bath featured a golden slumbers bath bomb.