Fudging and floundering …
I spent Tuesday, the major part of the day, in the emergency room of a local hospital. I’d been driving to work and – out of the blue – I had a queer turn. When I arrived at the salon my boss took one look at me, packed me in her car and did some low flying. Various things were plugged into me; a drip, an ECG machine and an MRI scanner. I got a very burny injection in my bum. It was concluded that I was not having a heart attack or a stroke, I was simply in the throes of a massive anxiety attack and would be fine after a few hours of monitoring. A few hours turned into 8 and then my little Kate came to fetch me.
I went home and, with the sanction of a public holiday, slept like a stone for two days and tried to ignore the non-progress of the construction of my new cottage.
The builders had been stymied: it appeared that there was a leaky pipe behind one of the walls in what was to be my bedroom and they would have to chip away the new plaster and start afresh. It rained. Day after day, it poured, preventing the men from working.
I tried to be patient, with the help of Shiraz and Etta James, and the company of my new roomie, Lulubelle, (who is proving to be a very noisy bedfellow – more of which later) and countless cigarettes.
It would seem that Mercury was in retrograde: my computer died, just to confound things.
Wallowing shamelessly in self-pity, I took to plucking my nostril hairs to induce bouts of crying. When I overheard my husband (what do I call him now???) making a booking for the Eagles concert, I wept like a drain.
And so it goes. (Thanks Charlie!)
I had pork sausages and mashed potatoes for lunch.