Spending the day waiting for things to happen: for it to get light outside; for the heating to come on; for the washing machine to finish; for it to give up on trying to get light outside and just go dark; for the light that's on timer to come on; for bed time.
Dark:
Today is a bad day. I've left ironing to build up to ridiculous proportions. I'm looking at the pile now, the coat hangers waiting patiently on the table. Just look at it. Actually, just LOOK at it:
It's not even therapeutic doing it because I know I have to then cram the freshly ironed garments into my overcrowded wardrobe. And when you get to wear them, they are worn under a jumper or cardigan, or in the case of wearing them in my office at work, under a jumper, a cardie of mirth, a scarf and a fleece because it's so bloody cold in there.
So, having changed my bed, taken the dog for a walk along the canal, done the pots, washed the bedding, I'm having a rest before I tackle all those sleeves, cuffs, collars, and the bits between the buttons.
I'm pleading with the central heating to start warming me up. COME ON!
Contrast Sundays in winter to those in the summer. Those lovely warm, sunny days that start when you want them to and only start to end at 10pm. Actually I can't remember the last Sunday that we had like that in England, but you catch my drift.
Today, I woke buried in my nest-like bed, surrounded by pillows, curled beneath my duvet and new, ooh-la-la quilted bedspread. The curtains kept out what light there was of the grey day outside. I received a text message shortly after 9am, my sister wanting to know if I'd like to go for a walk with her and Little Con. Is she mad? Sundays like today should be given over to trying to stay warm and moping, preferably by staying in bed all day, smacked up on codeine derivatives.
The shortest day is coming up, thankfully, I bet that's on a fucking Sunday too. But once I'm through that, things can start to get better. As the end of January approaches, my mood usually starts to lift slightly - with March only four weeks away, I can start imagining lighter mornings and evenings, new buds on trees, the shoots of spring bulbs making their way to say hello to us all (unless they've all died in the clay-heavy soil that I have here), warmth.
Therapy
I had my final counselling session on Thursday. I've been feeling OK for the past month or two and now it's up to me to get on with my life, whatever that may turn out like. More of the same old crap no doubt, but at least I know that the same old crap is much easier to deal with and can even actually be quite nice when you don't hide yourself away and avoid people. God, do I really have to bother?
One thing about the reception at the counselling service disturbed me: poinsettias. I hate these plants. They're just some horticultural joke that tries to look like an imitation plant. A fuck-ugly one at that.
7 comments:
The worst thing about Sunday is Monday.
This is why I plan to retire on a sizeable wad asap. Well, that was the idea until the recession kicked in.
We'll all be rioting in the streets when the end of days comes soon, so we'll lose all sense of time anyway.
Bring it on.
on sundays like this, the only thing to do is to stay in pyjamas all day, drink ridiculous amounts of coffee and laze about all day.
Well, it's 8pm, so I suppose I could get my pyjamas on and go to bed soon. And then I'll wake up (in the dark) at 5.50am and it'll be Magical Monday again. Oh joyous Mondays, how happy I am to greet them with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
also - start buying things that don't need ironing? i bought a superduper state of the art ridiculously expensive iron about six years ago, and i have used it possibly a dozen times. most stuff looks fine not ironed, honestly.
LIES! All shirts need ironing and some trousers, but that's it. I can't face doing more than is absolutely necessary.
I know what you mean. I always thought that U2 song Sunday Bloody Sunday was about the awfulness of Sundays ...until someone enlightened me!
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