Sorry for myself blog plus a heartfelt thank-you

Why do I wake at 2.30am precisely, nearly every night? Why? Last night I just lay there and hurt. It felt like something malevolent were scraping my bones. I tried meditating; tried amplifying the pain to find out what it meant but it wasn’t playing ball. It just settled in my hips and started screaming. So I switched channels; tried listening instead and all I could hear was the clock ticking louder and louder: time crashing in. And then an unsettling arrhythmic scrape from somewhere in the room. Scrape. Then nothing. Then a couple of scrapes. And so on. It bothered me. Okay, I’ll be honest, it scared me the way strange things can sometimes do in the dark of night.


The SP started to shift and I figured he needed to go out but no. He just moved himself so he lay right along my hip, as if to warm it, to heal it. Dear little dog.

When the light came it was measly, half-hearted, as if really it couldn’t be arsed. Grey, overcast, gloomy. And today I am trammelled, constrained, held in the grey no-man’s land. I am waiting for a delivery that needs a signature so cannot take the SP for a long walk; cannot go to the gym. My parcel is going to be delivered by Hermes apparently which, I confess, did bring a smile to my face. The image of a glowing Greek god with winged sandals knocking on my door was rather delicious, if madly incongruous.

Anyhow. I checked good old Louise Hay over breakfast – well, James’ breakfast. I had a glass of pomegranate juice in good Persephone fashion. She says that hip problems are ‘fear of going forward in major decisions’. Okaaay. She also reckons that perfect balance is an issue. Hmm, can’t argue with her on that. Apparently I should be affirming ‘Hip Hip Hooray – there is joy in every day’. Well, Louise, love - sorry, but today you can shove that little thought where the sun don’t shine.

But I did think about the balance bit. As always, I’ve gone a bit extreme again. First the food (or no food) thing; now exercise. No wonder my poor body is in shock. Maybe it’s a good thing that I can’t race out and pummel it again today. So I did my Tibetan exercises which get pretty well most muscles but aren’t harsh or cruel. And then I thought about what Lulu had said about the laundry room being a bit iffy and needing a good smudging. So I whipped off my furry boots and socks and lit up a smudge stick and gave myself a good going over and then smudged the laundry which is, indeed a pit and a total feng shui nightmare. The SP followed me, looking approving, so I carried on and, before I knew it, I’d done pretty much the whole house. He nudged the door down to the Staircase of Darkest Despond.

‘Are you sure?’
He nudged it again. So we went down, my feet rapidly turning into small iceblocks, and threw smoke all down the SoDD. Opened the door to the Siberian freezer aka the Loo of Doom and gave it a blast. Then took a deep breath and walked briskly into the Cellar of Despair. Whoah! This place really could feature in a Poe short story. So I gave that a bit of a whoosh and retreated. By now the entire house was swathed in smoke (and I'd burned a series of small holes in my sweater) so I just hoped Hermes wouldn't choose that particular moment to flutter in. 

Looked in the mirror and thought my mascara had also been smudged before I realised I didn’t have any on and it was just huge blue-black circles round my eyes. Had a good cathartic sob. Got some damn good advice from some damn good friends. Pressed a few acupressure points.  Sobbed again. Got angry with myself for being pathetic and faintly ridiculous. Will I ever fecking grow up?



those aren't my fingers, btw



Then Hermes arrived, not fluttering, more plodding:  stout, unwinged but with the sweetest smile. And my iPod is SO small. How can something so tiny have been so expensive? Now I sound like my mother. Anyhow...I am not going to download any music today because this iPod is supposed to life my mood, to soothe my tattered soul. I already have plenty of Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell and SoulSavers and Nick Drake and Ray Lamontagne and Mark Lanegan and Jeff Buckley and their ilk. I need uplifting, purposeful, inspiring. Suggestions?

PS – I owe the iPod to you, dear readers. Remember that Next campaign before Christmas? The one where I asked, cajoled, begged you to click the little icon? Well, get this – you done good, so so so good, because this blog won. Yup, came top out of the 100 that took part. And so I snaffled a shitload of Next vouchers.

What have I bought? Okay, don’t laugh – this part is really sad. Did I buy a whole new wardrobe? No. I’ve ordered a washing machine (one which hopefully won’t make clothes smell of public lavatories); three bedside lamps (so we don’t have to risk electrocution every night); two BRIGHT PINK (don’t ask – they flirted) bath sheets (when Lulu came to stay she remarked that every single towel in the house has some form of branding on it!).
And then my hand wavered over the PSP (James’ went kaput ages back). My finger was ready to click; it really was. But then I saw the magic word iPod and for the first time ever I gave in to total wanton selfishness.
Please God, don’t let James see this post.