Today is not real
This is one of those days - do you know the ones? - that begin with a pffft and deteriorate. Things are disjointed and jerky. They sky is ever so slightly the wrong colour, and everyone’s voices are too loud. I sat in front of a woman on the bus today who was relating an obviously hilarious story to someone over her mobile phone in Cantonese. The only word I could make out was ‘chicken skin’, and I recognised that only because she kept saying it, over and over again. I’m going to be dreaming about chicken skin tonight, I can just feel it.
My mobile phone has been misbehaving, and all my contacts from the letter N onwards have disappeared. I have them stored in my PDA though, so that’s ok…. except that no! I wrote them all down wrong. The writing recognition system has changed all the numbers, and in my overenthusiasm and blind trust of all things technological, I didn’t check. So I couldn’t meet my friend for lunch today, as planned, because I couldn’t call her, and there was no point in expecting her to call me, because that’s not something that she does. So my friends are restricted to the first half of the alphabet, which is a shame. I can’t call Steve, or Polly. Tine is lost to me forever.
My hair has finally turned a corner and gone into full ‘insane bag lady’ mode. The growing out era has reached the howler epoch. It’s madly curly, and refuses to listen to the hairbrush, even though it clearly knows best. Bits of it are sticking up in odd directions, and the damp weather has made it frizzy beyond the salvation of my Charles Worthington sleeking serum, or whatever it’s called. I will have to wear a hat for the foreseeable future. It doesn’t help that every woman I’ve seen today has been fantastically well groomed, and looking gorgeous. Grrrrr.
I just washed my beautiful and expensive cashmere jumper in the 40 degree wash by mistake. It is now the size of a postage stamp. It won’t even fit the Christmas angel I have sitting in my room, waiting for its Big Day.
Also, I can’t turn my head to the left or right, because I’m recovering from a nauseating headache - ‘a bastard behind the eyes’ as Withnail so accurately described his. Except mine’s not a hangover, more’s the pity. It’s more or less gone now, but it’s made my neck seize up, so I’m lying in bed, feeling decidedly unbeautiful, undertalented, cashmere jumperless and generally sorry for myself, trying not to make any sudden movements. Flowers and chocolate to this address please.
I’m hoping that I’ll wake up tomorrow and not remember today at all. It’s been a disappointment. It’s the kind of day that could have done so much, but instead it chose to underachieve. By this evening it may have pulled it’s finger out and put a bit of effort in, but by then it will all be too late. It’s time will have passed, and it will never get a second chance.
I have to go now, and get some clothes on, try to tame my hair, and neck a couple of nurofen before a lovely friend from the beginning of the alphabet comes over. We’re going to Greenwich for a mosey around. We might go to the cinema. I hope my head will stay on, and not fall off and bounce down the road into town, shocking the punters at Cafe Rouge. I think I need more nurofen. And some cotton wool.
*sigh*