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Feb. 19th, 2009 12:36 pmI'm at the stage of mourning where life niggles. It's now just over four weeks since my father collapsed on the street and I'm reacting oddly to events and sugegstions and invitations. I have PMT again, which certainly doesn't help.
If I'm going to rant this month, it's likely to be in the next few days, since my rant dial is turned fully up or is so far down it might as well be off. I have no medium settings. I bet it would make me strange at parties, if I could go to parties.
From Sunday I'm allowed parties again, but the only one that I can make, I shan't. Sorry, Donna, I do want to see and celebrate your new house, but zombies are something that reminds me too much of seeing my father in that strange half-death. I guess I'm too close to death right now to play mind-games with it.
Bushfire smoke niggles. That's a more physical niggle. I have the asthma more or less under control now, though last night I was trying to hide it from friends (they couldn't do anything about it - why should they have to worry?).
It niggles me that there's a strange smell in my flat and I can't locate it or get rid of it.
It niggles me that my nice flat monitor died over eighteen months ago and I still haven't found the money to replace it. This is because of all the other appliance deaths that have happened. Which reminds me, I need to ring the washing machine guy again and get it fixed again. This week has not given me brainspace for many phonecalls. What I do with this week's accumulated laundry in the meantime is also a niggle (last week Llyn sorted it for me, which was a big relief).
It niggles me that my uncle wants me to install Skype just for the shloshim thing. I've been made to feel like a bit of a pariah because I don't have Skype. Yet the only reason he gave was so that he could bring his own laptop to Mum's for his part of the phone linkup.
I'm niggled about the shloshim. It will commemorate the thirty days since Les died and in that time I've only had odd hours here and there to sort things out. I'm now at the stage where it's all too hard to find time, which is funny, because I've also said 'no' to things. This doesn't niggle me: it's all asthma. I learned when I was a child that breathing is more important than committee work. I just wish I had learned the same lesson about mourning.
It niggles me that I am betwen novels. I am so seldom this thoroughly between novels that it's strange. No odd life forms inhabit my mind. There's only me in there. I ought to be partying madly and yet ... I can't. I had three parties and two have been cancelled and the third is zombies. And every time I say that word I see Les on his death bed. I really do need to take time out for him. Before Sunday, too.
The other niggles are all minor. The back of my left knee niggles, for instance. You really don't want to hear about my left knee. Trust me on this.
If I'm going to rant this month, it's likely to be in the next few days, since my rant dial is turned fully up or is so far down it might as well be off. I have no medium settings. I bet it would make me strange at parties, if I could go to parties.
From Sunday I'm allowed parties again, but the only one that I can make, I shan't. Sorry, Donna, I do want to see and celebrate your new house, but zombies are something that reminds me too much of seeing my father in that strange half-death. I guess I'm too close to death right now to play mind-games with it.
Bushfire smoke niggles. That's a more physical niggle. I have the asthma more or less under control now, though last night I was trying to hide it from friends (they couldn't do anything about it - why should they have to worry?).
It niggles me that there's a strange smell in my flat and I can't locate it or get rid of it.
It niggles me that my nice flat monitor died over eighteen months ago and I still haven't found the money to replace it. This is because of all the other appliance deaths that have happened. Which reminds me, I need to ring the washing machine guy again and get it fixed again. This week has not given me brainspace for many phonecalls. What I do with this week's accumulated laundry in the meantime is also a niggle (last week Llyn sorted it for me, which was a big relief).
It niggles me that my uncle wants me to install Skype just for the shloshim thing. I've been made to feel like a bit of a pariah because I don't have Skype. Yet the only reason he gave was so that he could bring his own laptop to Mum's for his part of the phone linkup.
I'm niggled about the shloshim. It will commemorate the thirty days since Les died and in that time I've only had odd hours here and there to sort things out. I'm now at the stage where it's all too hard to find time, which is funny, because I've also said 'no' to things. This doesn't niggle me: it's all asthma. I learned when I was a child that breathing is more important than committee work. I just wish I had learned the same lesson about mourning.
It niggles me that I am betwen novels. I am so seldom this thoroughly between novels that it's strange. No odd life forms inhabit my mind. There's only me in there. I ought to be partying madly and yet ... I can't. I had three parties and two have been cancelled and the third is zombies. And every time I say that word I see Les on his death bed. I really do need to take time out for him. Before Sunday, too.
The other niggles are all minor. The back of my left knee niggles, for instance. You really don't want to hear about my left knee. Trust me on this.