Sorry about the lack of posts. Aethelread is a bad blogger; go straight to jail: do not pass go: do not collect £200. There’s an explanation, but at the moment I just can’t face going into all the ins and outs of it, especially since some of them are up in the air. Sorry for not being more specific; I’ll let you know about it when it’s all settled. It’s not really a big deal, it just seems like it to me sometimes.
I’m also, again, hating this time of year. The clocks going back is such a final thing, an admittance of defeat. Saturday night/ Sunday morning was horrible, lying in bed, too tired to think, too yerreeicheurgh to sleep, trying to drag my way through to the morning, and I checked my clock, and the bastarding thing had automatically adjusted itself to the time change, and the whole agonising, inchingly slow progress had just been set back an hour. Yes, it does mean that it gets light earlier, which is a huge relief, but the benefit of that only lasts for a few weeks, and in return I’m sitting here and already it’s almost night. I hate this.
I know, I know, I should get myself a light box. Or try to recall the version of me that used to be excited by the autumn, found it fun to be out and about in the darkness, enjoyed the sight of sodium lights reflected in puddles. The trouble is that version of me didn’t have the experience of multiple bereavements happening in the autumn/ winter. It’s the graveyard season, as the old saying has it, the time of illness and death, of crowded hospitals and over-booked crematoria. A light box can’t change that.
If I’m looking around for a positive – and I am – I guess it comes in the fact that the collapse of my mood hasn’t been quite so total this year. I am feeling stirrings of the old pleasure when I head out for long walks at dusk, striding around under the rushing, louring clouds. (It helps that I finally plucked up courage, and have new shoes to do it in, shoes that don’t have tiny holes in the sole: dry feet, the luxury.) Also, for the first time in about 5 years, I had a brief spurt of a christmassy feeling a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t last long – 20 minutes or so – but it was enough that I started wondering about making mince-pie filling (grapes, apple, dried fruit, the richest, darkest sugar, a fuck-ton of cinnamon and enough brandy to kill an ox – what’s not to love?). That was a trick my mum – who hated the winter – used; plan for christmas to keep you occupied in the autumn, and then, when you’re out the other side, into the bleakness of January – well, at least the year has turned, the days are getting longer, and the snowdrops and winter aconites are coming in. It’s easier to wait for the light to come back when you don’t have to wait for it to finish going away first.
In the debit column, the engagement I referred to earlier in the year is now a marriage. I was invited, but didn’t go. Partly for their sake – really, who wants the Ghost of Relationships Past hanging around when you’re trying to convince yourself that this one is the one that will last forever? – but also mine. I value the friendship a great deal, and I am keen that he should be happy, but there’s a limit to my emotional masochism, and sipping fizzy wine in honour of ‘the happy couple’ in the company of friends that used to be ‘ours’ but became ‘his’ when we split would have been way over it.
So, yeah, anyway, stuff. I’m ok, that was the main point I wanted to make. A bit crappy round the edges, but basically fine. I have new shoes, and dry feet, that’s always a good thing.