Ack. They've moved some desks and chairs up here, and, being govt issue, they're the exact same tables and chairs I used to have at school, and everytime I look up and see them I am straight back there, thirteen years old and hated and unhappy.
Things just don't change, though I realise now that I'll always be friendless and alone, and I'll never drive through Paris in a sports car, with the warm wind in my hair...
Anyhoo, before things took a turn for the mopey...(skip straight to the links)
Saturday: I had an incredibly zen moment today: a lesson in giving up my desires.
I'm not talking about stuff I want because I've seen it on tv, or stuff I want because everyone else has it, because that never works, but stuff I really, genuinely, desperately wanted and needed.
You see I was not at the comic con, oh no. I was at yet another garden show in my capacity as porter, trailing after AP with her wheelie trolley, which gives me ever such a crick, and even though they were actually selling plants at this garden show, unlike the last half dozen, I just didn't care. I'd given up. I stood at the top of the stairs and just said goodbye to the thought of ever replacing my dear, departed lavenders. I fully, totally and sincerely gave up upon my quest.
So at the very next table, frell me dead, there they were. Tiny wee inch high specimens of my long sought after allardii and spanish lavenders. Well, never look a gift horse in the mouth, I say. Now all that remains is to restore them to their rightful place.
You see, when I came home from my trip of a lifetime, I decided, as I'd promised in Bath, that I'd build a small shrine to the gods as a thankyou. So I cleared out the midden heap beneath the back steps, tiled it, painted a mock temple on the back of the shed, threw in a few cheap plaster columns and statues bought from a tat shop and arranged pots of lavender and an olive tree, or rather the stalk of an olive tree. And my lavenders flourished. They grew huge and I loved to watch them, I loved to walk amongst them, press cuttings in my books and crumple the leaves in my hands. My lavenders were things of beauty and I loved them.
And people admired them. Thus AP destroyed my garden utterly, banished my lavenders to the bottom of the yard, where they promptly died. I mourned, I grieved, I wailed, I raged, I bled. I got sick, my career went south and I lost all my friends and I never, ever had another holiday. In short, I am cursed.
Now, at least, I have my lavenders. Please, let me enjoy them again. Please, let me have another chance.
I also tootled around the Chinese Gardens. It's always lovely, but too crowded on a day like that to be tranquil. Loved the camelias and picked up a couple of tiny tube stock versions for super cheap to plant in my old pots that have been rolled into the far corner of the yard like a dung heap. They'll look pretty in the scrap of space between the shed and the sewer I've been alloted (it's not what you've got but how you use it, right? Right?)
Watched Two Men in a Trench (because I am so over Monarch of the Glen). Bloody brilliant. I now know that musket balls don't squish when they pass through soldiers, and that they'll go straight through a shield and the soldier behind it.
To the Pain.
Sunday proved I was still accursed. I wickedly slept in so AP went off to do the shopping with a slam and took a nasty fall on the way back. It's all my fault and I'm terrified of what her friends and relatives will say as they're so critical of my care and they'll report me. If she'd only waited.
Everyone calls me a parasite for living at home but I try to do as much as I can but it's never good enough even though I'm providing free care in the community and I pay all my taxes and I help pay the bills but I'm still a parasite. It's my fault I'm not married - I am cursed with a sharp wit and sharper tongue, ensuring that no one could ever like me, and nobody does. And as if being fat and iugly isn't enough, I have to work a 60+ hour week to cover for the damn f*cking breeders who always show up at eleven and leave at three and never work five days in a row because of the kids you know and have every holiday off and I never get a holiday or a day off or an evening off and I work all weekends but if I complain I'm the worst type of bitch, all selfish and evil, worse than terrorists, pedophiles and politicians all put together if the Daily Telegraph is anything to go by. But when do I get a life? I have to cover for everyone, so when do I get to meet people? I never got to do anything I wanted on the weekend, but still I am a loathsome worm, by very nature.
So, anyways, between the trains going out and AP laid up and me in a terror, there went my weekend. I laboured all day in the garden and I am burnt, scratched, bloody, bruised, sore and missing part of my toe, as I had no idea AP was building tank traps in the garden, as I fell down a deep hole she'd dug and filled with broken bricks, which had become covered over with leaves so I never saw it (especially as I was raking large Tarzan sized spider webs from between the trees where I wanted to walk at the time). I bled and bled but nobody cared. I put my spindly lavenders back but it's too late, isn't it. It's always too late and no second chances. Nobody ever gives second chances. One slip, one bad day, and you're out, struck off, shunned forever more.
So here I am at work, because those f*cking breeders are all off today as per usual so I have to cover for them, and if AP falls over tottering to the bathroom at home I'll be arrested. I hate my life. I don't think I can bear another second, quite frankly. I hate it all and everything I do I just screw up and the more I try the worse it gets and I just can't do anything right. I just wish it'd stop. In my dreams it all stopped and I was free, and it felt good. And the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had...
I mean, of course I'm a loathesome parasite, scum of the earth. I'm fat and as ugly as a sack of shirt. When I accidentally catch my reflection in a window I want to vomit. No wonder people yell at me and hurl things at me when they drive past. I'm a hideous freak and I deserve it. I loathe and despise myself. It's just as well that I'm cursed, and I never, ever, will get to drive through Paris in a sportscar, with the warm wind in my hair. I deserve a horrible lonely death and happily I'm bang on track for one.
And now all the servers have gone down. Hello, Monday, anyone?
Cheered up a little by the sight of Viggo gardening (hey, wanna help me? No, didn't think so). Then I am depressed by my own loathsome and pathetic efforts, always found so wanting and harshly judged. Same with cooking. I wasn't taught by a friend, relative or lover. I learnt at a very backwards school where everything was judged on appearance and god forbid if you spilt something while they marched up and down with the clipboards. I hate it and I always will. No wonder I'm complete crap at it.
Still, I suppose yesterday wasn't all bad. There was only some leftover smoked salmon and eggs in the fridge, so we made eggs hollandaise, or cthulhu eggs with lard sauce, as the eggs were poached free form and they looked like that alien thingy from Doctor Who. The amount of butter required, yikes, it was obscene. And I did get to make myself an instant hot chocolate after watering by moonlight (these days you have to water under the cover of darkness). I don't often get to do that, make myself a cuppa after hard labour.
Watched some of the X Files, and this Cold Mountain thing on the history channel, which, aside from a couple of Jude soundbites, offered up nothing but evidence the novel was heavily plagerised from existing journals. And the faux Ken Burns crap? Knock it off. Now.
And sorry for this post but I hate my life and the hormones are wild.