Blood was 4.8 this morning - proving, if anyone's interested, that late-night porridge, in small doses - not such a bad thing for the blood sugar. Who knew? There's probably a research grant I'm failing to take advantage of. Maybe I could write a thesis - "Porridge Rocks, And I'll Deck Anyone Who Says Different: Experiments In Consequential Oatmeal."
No?
Anyhow, d was still almost ridiculously sick this morning, so I did a quick drug run to the pharmacy. Did you know you can't get cough medicine with Codeine any more? Buggered if I did, but apparently, and I quote, "People abused it."
How the fuck desperate have you got to be to think "I'm down on my luck, nothing much is going my way...time to get high on Codeine!"?
Maybe I'm showing my age now - maybe Codeine and Alcopops are the latest craze down the rave bars...
If so, it's just too sad for words, isn't it? Makes you want to give the little mentalists some money for Crack, just so long as we can have freakin' cough medicine that works!
Anyhow, that little trip of about 200 steps all told is about as energetic as I got all day. The long and the short of it is I have a lot to do before we go away on Friday (did I mention - was gonna be going on Tuesday: now going on Friday, as the result of a surgeon's mother up and irresponsibly dying at an inconvenient moment. Don't suppose anyone needs a one-way ticket to Methyr on Tuesday, do they?), but most of what I have to do involves not actually moving very much at all - most of it is writing to do by deadlines. Which has meant that as d regained her mojo throughout the day...and then lost it again as evening came...I've been pretty much immune to everything she's done. Which has turned out to be a Hell of a lot - she's boxed up an almost insane amount of the kitchen, adding even more to the refugee chic of our lives in this flat. And all the while, I've been sitting here, growing carbuncles on my ass, writing. In my defence, it's stuff that has to be done, and may yet have a positive effect on our lives, but it's enough to make you feel more than a little crappy when your poorly sick wife is doing what would, by any sane and sober observer, be called 'the hard graft.'
Paused, briefly, to watch the new Dr Who of course. Any thoughts? Quite liked it as episodes go - not exactly inconsequential, but hardly sturm and drang. Best line - probably have to go with Rory again - "Hitler - in the cupboard!"
That'll be appearing on T-shirts soon, I guarantee it.
But that was pretty much a brief sojourn from 'sitting on my ass' to 'laying on my ass.' Hardly what you'd call demanding stuff. Of course, I did my daily hour of cycling, and now, as the clock screams towards 11PM, I'm kinda tempted to do another.
Still, if I'm learning anything on this journey, it's how to resist temptaion. Instead, I think I may go and do some thoroughly arduous 'laying in bed scratching myself.' And, hopefully, some proper writing - some me-time, not-boring, not-deadlined writing. For reasons that will be clear to absolutely none of you, (except, now I think about it, Tig), Gallileo Gallilei won't leave me the Hell alone. Which is probably just as well.
Enigmatic, eh?
Hope so - I've got an Enigmatic Bollocks quota to make you know, and I'm behind schedule - I have to say twelve enigmatic, pretentious things by this time Monday. I'm sure I'll make it, but still, another deadline. It's all pressure, this life you know...
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