I am feeling decidedly ratty today, grumbly.
This probably has a lot to do with the grey-green fog of illness that has sat, fat and demanding to be fed, in this house since Christmas. As with the rest of the world this year everyone has had colds, viruses and the general bleugh for five weeks at a time, on a sort of haphazard rota system. Of the four of us at least one has been throwing up or coughing all through the night pretty much constantly. Yes, I know, same everywhere. We havent so much arrived at Spring, as slid through a sorty of musty, slimy re-warming of assorted dreaded lurgies that clung maliciously to the trees and municipal nooks and crannies across the world since autumn last year.
Anyway, I guess I must be waking up. This has caused a sort of hybrid urge to attempt Spring cleaning and a terrified realisation that I havent had my head on the right way round or my brain the right way up since the year started. Its that feeling of being five months late with your school homework and as my world proceeds at a stately and relatively inactive pace I begin to get this underlying sensation of an irreversible walk to the gallows, with ocassional flashes of falling off a trapeze with no safety net. Panic, basically, and that never makes me cry, it always makes me furious, and if I'm not careful, a bit anal - intense, unfunny and rather peculiar. Stressy, pushy, and 'Woah, step away from the mad woman!'
Like PMT, I tend to kill a few people and alienate several thousand more before realising what the cause is.
So there you have it - self diagnosis today is that I am not funny, not clever, very silly, in some sort of indefinable trouble / deep shit and so far from organised that I don't know where to start.
The name of this bloody blog is pissing me off big time. It was started as the scary concept of making a private diary that somebody else might see. I succumbed to humility and tried to make a naff and apologetic joke of the title. Cringe. It will stay as it is for a good while, however, because I am so disorganised that I need to find the house under the detritus before I can forge a system, before I can work out who I am, at which point I might work out what I want to say (if anything) and therefore what I might call this blog. Apart from 'A Pile Of Shit'. That feels like a perfectly good name for it today, but by tomorrow it would probably look like another hot, brown and smelly little pile of self deprecation instead.