Maybe not the best weekend.
The friend who most disappoints me disappointed me again – at least there is a certain consistency.
And I suspect my pancreas has lurched another step nearer incineration (that’s what they do with the decrepit bits that have given up on us, isn’t it?). For a change this isn’t because I’ve breached the medically imposed purdah of nil alcohol. Narry a drop has passed my lips for a wee while (well, since last Friday when I went to level one (the least worst one) alcohol hell – though I did up inhalation of noxious substances). I just feel unwell. And I think the insulin cells have joined the enzyme cells in their slide toward obsolescence. The symptoms bore even me so I’ll stop here.
Anyway. Not a good weekend. Aside from the pancreas and the disappointing friend I had to spend two hours by the kiddie football pitch (oh how I hate football) early on Saturday morning. Then I had to do the weekly shop (which does not include the daily 3 litre milk bill) – £162.86 which just underlines how mad I was to have so many children. Then I just harrumphed my way through the rest of the day. Being crabbie and losing patience with the wee ones who had rediscovered water pistols and who were merrily soaking each other and all else within their vicinity.
Today I escaped to the wee cafe lad runs at the weekend. It overlooks the church and high street. I sat with the observer magazine, a coffee and a bit of caramel shortbread and watched the Lanark world go by. Just when I thought I had reached equilibrium – a nice balance beginning to assert itself – I was joined by the sad Ginger and his companion. Ginger resides in supported accommodation – his mental health issues requiring supervision. On a good day Ginger taxes my patience – though I understand and try my best. Today I just didn’t have the energy to respond with the appropriate response (one which doesn’t inflame him and have him shouting; one which requires vigilance and thought on the part of me). His racism started to grate; his loud insistence that I answer, and now, began to overwhelm me. So, I packed up and left.
I went up to the loch and sat on the far side, watching the swans feeding and then the fishermen who were setting up their wee shelters and their complicated rod sensors.
I sat and brooded on my friend; on my health; on the coming week which I really don’t much feel up to. And then I decided to write that mental list of ‘reasons to be grateful’ – a pretty clichéd technique I know – but one which can at least force me to remember that it’s not all bad.
I’ll let you know if it works.