The SP and I have hibernated. We have been going to bed earlier and earlier each night and getting up later and later. We lie, side by side, like medieval effigies, under two duvets, and occasionally an extra blanket. Outside the rain falls steadily and inside, well, the rain falls steadily too. What do we do, the SP and I? Well, I can’t speak for the SP but I just lie there, not exactly thinking. Not exactly meditating. Sort of freeform musing really. Vagueing. Suspended animation. I’m not depressed; not sad even. Just… hibernating. On ice.
Eventually, of course, I have to get up and do what needs to be done. And then, when that's sorted, the SP and I snuggle up on the sofa in my office, swathed in blankets, with the possible addition of a hot water bottle. Occasionally (see pic) Asbo joins us. I try to write but it’s kinda tough when there’s a small pseudo beagle on one’s lap. And then, as soon as it can be justified, I light a fire in the Oak Room and we transfer operations to there. I’ve pulled the armchair that usually sits in the window to the fire (my arse was getting numb on the stone bench in the inglenook). And the SP looks expectantly and, as soon as I’m ensconced, he jumps on my lap and we settle down to watch the flames. At some point James will wander in and then we’ll all curl up on the sofa instead, under a blanket, and watch crap movies. Or, occasionally, a good movie.
Am I reading? Not much. Am I listening to music? Not much. There’s just the soundtrack of my head and the soft whup whup of the flames.
But it will have to end. Much as one may think nothing changes, it does, drip by drip. And I will have to wake up and rejoin the world. And then I suppose I really ought to get my act together and try to make myself look vaguely presentable. At some point over Christmas we went over to see my friend Rachel and her family for lunch. It was lovely; it always is. My godson was his usual edible self and his sisters begged me to be their quasi godmother and I said I’d think about it, because being a godmother is an expensive business (cash-wise, not soul-wise). And they made me laugh a lot and I admired their hair and nails and stuff, the way you do, and they said, ‘Hey, we could do your hair and nails.’ And their mother looked slightly alarmed but I said, ‘Cool.’
‘We could give you blue streaks,’ said R (15).
‘No,’ said Rachel.
‘Maroon?’ said R.
'We're good at dipping,' said H (13).
'What about ombre?' I said.
|I think they have this in mind. :-)|
'Oh God,' said Rachel.
'We haven't done ombre before,' said R.
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go to London soon for some filming thing – you could give me a makeover. I’m in your hands.’
Rachel’s mouth formed a perfect O of horror.
‘Maroon then, and copper, and maybe a bit of blue and…oooh, and crackle glaze for the nails. And we could do a face pack – those 99p chocolate ones.’
Rachel shook her head violently from side to side, mouthing urgently at me..
H picked up a clump of my hair (now cascading alarmingly down past my shoulders). ‘It could do with a cut.’
‘Go for it,’ I said.
Rachel quietly and repeatedly banged her head on the table.