Today I have been mostly fed up, and slightly weepy, but that might be because I have woken up at 0530 for the last few days, and it is a pain in the arse, frankly, being this tired.
Was in London today, but lacked the energy to walk anywhere. I only managed to drag my weary carcass across Westminster Bridge before catching the Tube this morning, and then copped out and got the Tube all the way back to Waterloo this evening.
Remembering that there is very little actual food in the house, I decided to call into the supermarket before I came home. In my head, this meant that I would eat a proper supper tonight and have food in the house tomorrow so I can eat sensibly during the day.
I fantasised about picking up a hot roasted chicken and some fresh salad, maybe with some fresh pineapple afterwards. However, at 8pm on a Tuesday night, the supermarket has sold all the hot chickens, cleaned the rotisserie, and is trying to flog off the rock hard baguettes to groups of young Scouse squaddies.
It is not interested in providing a well-chosen and dainty evening repast to a woman who has been travelling for fucking hours.
Supper this evening actually consisted of 2 Scotch eggs, a handful of little tiny cherry tomatoes, and a big glass of flat fizzy water with some lemongrass squash in it. I am waiting for a knock on the door from Jamie Oliver and the food police as I type.
Anyhoo, I was mooching around the place with my little hand basket, biting my lip and feeling sorry for myself, composing a sad, sad blog post in my head about how cruel everything is, and how unbearable, and how awful and lonely, and how much I hate my life. I was in some danger of going emo.
I rounded a corner into the MEAT aisle, and there in front of me was a large, rotund chap dressed in the height of West Wiltshire chic.
He had on a pair of baggy blue tracksuit bottoms, or possibly overalls, tucked into workboots liberally splattered with crud. His huge saggy torso was encased in an ancient, equally saggy, green sweatshirt, also crud-encrusted. Topping off the ensemble was a jaunty black woollen hat, looking much like the teat of a baby's bottle, perched high on his head, emphasising his red cheeks and shiny jowls.
I sighed heavily, thinking how terrible life is when you are faced with such things.
As I dragged myself past him, possibly swinging my arms like Kevin the Teenager, I heard the opening bars of "Oi've got a braaan new comboin aaaarvester". I shook my head, clearly overtired and imagining Wurzels songs in the middle of the supermarket.
But no. Mr West Wiltshire Fashion reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his mobile, and answered it with a huge grin on his face, after letting the Wurzels get almost all the way through the first verse.
It made me laugh out loud, just as soon as I got round the corner, and suddenly life felt less like a hideous struggle.
Other news: Mr WithaY called from his windswept hostel in the remote Welsh countryside, which was lovely. I am missing him very much, and plan to hide his passport when he comes home, just in case. And possibly all his trousers.