Not quite Shirley Valentine, but almost.
This, if you hadn't realised, is my e-version of talking to the walls of the kitchen.
Hello blog. How you doing, blogosphere? Whats that you say, sidebar? Yes it is very mild weather for the time of year.
And the dust gathers at the back of my hard drive as it hums pervasively. The little brown web above it dances gently against the backdrop of the ceiling cornice. The cold afternoon sun glints off the condensation where the double glazing has lost it's seal, but the fog in my head is thick and settled, smelling old but feeling sleepy and I know I will not escape my little world today.
I wouldnt mind so much. As little worlds go, its liveable; except in the fog. In the fog I can't see a damn thing. I look inside my head and all is one huge grey swirling vista of nothingness. I could start walking, I know. But knowing my luck I'd fall over something.
Don't get me wrong; I've attended to the children and the laundry, nodded attentively at the husband whenever thought escaped his head and verbalised itself; I've even engaged in conversation (face to face, like, in the real world) that involved at least faking half an interest and a modicum of intellect, yet physically I feel as though I have wandered vacantly in ever decreasing circles.
Potter into the kitchen.
"What did I come in here for?"
"No idea at all."
Potter out again.
I'd like to say I've been just as bad in my internal workings, in my subconscious; that I have at least umm-ed and ahh-ed and attempted to form coherent thought and translate it into a plan. Somehow, however, my head just isn't playing along. My ego says that it would like to stumble into a metaphorical kitchen and forget why, except that it really can't be bothered.
Even my ego isn't speaking to me. Nor is my inner child, nor even my mental list keeper, the one that keeps me in the loop about what needs to be done; nag, nag, tick, tick, ("don't forget, remember you have to" etc etc). Theyre all having a day off.
So I figured, what the heck, I'll talk to my blog instead.
Whats that, little profile box? You say I'm chicken? You're probably right. See when Shirley Valentine got fed up being ignored, she ran off to Greece and ended up restoring her feeling of being loved. Its the name, see, Valentine. Gives the game away.
So, question is, what would Shirley Turpentine do? And do I dare?