Not funny.

1.Blogfolk, don't you find that Christmas is just like PMT? I do.

2. Consider how it builds up, and with it a deep-seated, gut-churning anxiety; you know something is going to happen, you know the date even. You get more anxious, grumpier by the day, yet your forget why the suicidal feelings, the sudden bouts of despair, the snapping at family members and kicking of small pets. And then..

3. ..and then it's over! The tension suddenly eases. Ah, the relief. PMT, Christmas day, same thing. This year, I killed two birds with one stone; I'm exhausted.

*that'll be Pre-menstrual tension. Read your Cosmo already.

1. About two months ago, it was; I sent her a long, long email, because we hadn't seen each other since September; I told her what I'd been doing, my plans for the next few months, my lack of good resolutions for 2007, my love life, my search for meaning and what I'd had for breakfast. How was she, still seeing the same girl, and could we meet up soonish, would she like to come over for dinner?

2. Tonight saw a reply: Must catch up soon. Call me.

Perhaps I don't deserve my friends...

List

People of blogland, I have been busy not blogging. Instead, I have:

- Worked long hours, propped up by coffee; which in turns means no sleep when it’s time to sleep, and very small and puffy eyes the next morning at the beginning of more long hours, so that more coffee is needed, etc. Repeat for 5 days.
- Been trying to circumvent a cold with copious amounts of vitamin C, which also means I can’t sleep when it’s time to sleep.
- Felt a little sorry for myself, a little mushy in the head, and remembered it’s de rigueur in November.
-Tried to stop listening to the news to lower my blood pressure, and failed.
- Wondering where the following things are going: money, clean mugs, time, tins of cat food.
- Tried to stop sounding English in my Spanish class. Instead, I now sound French, which I hope is an improvement of sorts. Perhaps.

This weekend, I plan to sleep in, have a long bath, and wrap myself around my Special Lady Friend. I hope she won’t mind.
Thank you for stopping by!

Cartwheel

1. September, 1979, Wednesday morning.
I’m plaiting my long blonde hair, carefully, symmetrically, making sure the parting is impeccable and the bangs just right. I pause and look at my reflection in the mirror; I consider adding little red bows. This afternoon is important, I’m going to my very first gymnastics class. I wonder if they’ll like my hair.

2. Wednesday afternoon.
The gym is crammed full of 5, 6, 7 year olds wearing red leotards and white gym shoes. No one gives a shit about my plaits and their little bows. I can’t even do a cartwheel yet, I’ve so lost my edge. I can’t bear the thought of not being special but I won’t cry. When I go home at 4, I’ve lost the bows anyway.

3. October, 2005, Tuesday morning.
What to wear, what to wear. This afternoon, my Spanish class is starting.

4. Some things never change.

Not just olfactory

Late at night, I lay in some warm limbo of near-sleep when it hits me, unmistakable:

1. her smell. I remember her smell. It’s like getting my face slapped.
2. push it away/inhale as deep as I can?

3. it came out of nowhere, out of nothing, nothing in the room does/should smell of her, yet her smell forced itself upon me, played with me for a few seconds.
4. I inhale as hard as I can, afraid that it will go away, that it will turn out to be something else.

5. Do you know how difficult it is to remember someone’s smell? And how defiantly impossible to describe? I can’t even begin to describe it, I’m not subtle or lyrical enough to not immediately fall into the linguistic trap filled with ‘powerful’ and ‘rich’ and ‘spicy’; and still, should I try, you would never know what her smell is. I can’t even use a synonym or it for the sake of avoiding repetition.
6. Her smell is the thing I can’t rationalise, cut into pieces and put in a box.
7. It’s the smell that would greet me, again and again, on my arrival at the airport, when I would throw myself on her and think – this is where I want to be.

2. push it away/inhale as deep as I can?

8. I think I enjoy getting my face slapped.