Behold! In lieu of having Genuine Adventures, (or the cash for same), this week I have kicked the caffeine in the head. Or the touch, or something. See, it’s working already!
…So far, it seems suspiciously easy. There have been none of the rotten headaches from the first time around, and none of the absolute hopelessness from the second time around (I had been informed by my best mate at the time that, since she was doing Lent*, So Was I, and I was giving up coffee. Told her, I did, that this was not a good move, but she was adamant. Until two weeks in and several thousand wasted sheets of photocopier paper, because I could not even work out how to put a single sheet in face-down any more, at which point I was told we were dropping this already and never speaking of it again.)
*(She herself gave up beer. Not, spirits, or wine, or cider, just the beer. Who got the sweeter deal, you may ask? Also, this lead to the invention of the cider shandy, which was later appropriated by an ex as his own idea; only, when he tried to float names for my concoction, the barman chimed in and told him if he ordered it again, it would be as a ‘Limp Wrist’. So he didn’t.)
So I had major qualms about doing this while in charge of Actual Healthcare, which I always find ironic* because I am totally damaging my own health here, haha! But so far, I have been on the ball and completely non-homicidal. In fact, the only noticeable difference in my demeanour is that I suddenly could not give a rat’s arse about my performance any more. Oh dear. This could have really bad repercussions just by itself. What if it was only my over-stimulated adherence to Duty Above All Things that kept this place going?!
*(Probably, because that word does not mean what I think it means).
Still, it is a nice change to have people screaming down the phone at me and not give any tiny bit of a stuff about it. It is also a very good reason to write this chronicle of nonsense with at least a week’s lag (current lag: three weeks) because the urge to record in obsessive and bile-filled detail the exact contents of every invective-filled phonecall is gone and I don’t look like quite so much of a grudge-wielding harpy. (That’s: look like, for the record.)
Also, I am now sleeping up to eleven hours a day without any sign of guilt. So much for my plans to Get Shit Done.
Well, some shit got done this week. I ordered a whole pile of frocks for this upcoming trip to the Med, and they turned up and I tried them on. Some are much sluttier-looking than they were on the ‘you have thirty seconds to buy a frock nobody else touched with a bargepole’ list on eBay; some are much frumpier-looking. One even makes me look about three sizes larger, which is impressive in a size ten.
However! None of this is money wasted! Consider – I am gonna be mooching about by myself for much of the week, probably on the beach, and I don’t want to spend all that time shooing off sleazy people who take my lack of French for a lack of gumption about saying No (and then all evening bitching to the Bossman about Sleazy Blokes Who Ruined My Day while he was slaving away in the office, and another relationship bites the dust). Therefore, a frumpy frock that makes me look really large could be just the perfect outfit! Also, my Colleague of Skull Scarves, who has truly gone above and beyond this time, has brought in a selection of rings so I can has fake wedding ring. And if all that fails, I will drag out my 100% unnatural fibres camouflage-camisole thing and drive off the sleazes by looking even sleazier (and therefore no sort of challenge at all). Bwahahaha. I am so set.
Although I do wonder slightly if this is the right attitude to take to going on holiday, or if I am too cynical. But then I remember That Day In Venice When Everyone Within Ten Feet Hit On Me (and not in a complimentary, flattering manner; one of them shoved his tongue down my throat without any warning or indeed introduction, and one, after nearly running me down – which was admittedly my own fault – attempted to drag me into his car). We is not having holiday like that again, precious. Well, touchwood.
So Wednesday dawned bright and early with a powercut, which meant no shower, and no hot beverage for breakfast, but fortunately it had taken out the garage over the road too and the pumps didn’t work, so some screaming (presumably) went on, and it got fixed. Right in time for me to go to work – but hey, my flatties did not get up until right after it came back on, so I don’t look like even more like some dodgy backstreet landlady. And also, my freezers weren’t buggered or anything.
Wednesday also brought a mate round for pizza and wine and a massive chinwag about the worst times in our lives and the worst things we’ve ever done. It went on long into the night, until I gave her a tenner and put her in a cab home (see! For once, I am the exemplary host!) and involved vastly more of us falling about laughing than you might expect. So we are planning to do it again. On the other hand, there are people I intended to catch up for a pint with in May, who I still haven’t seen…
The rest of the week was spent panicking about what to do at the weekend. The Bossman has (quite reasonably) declared that he’s been organising all the fun round here lately, so it’s my turn. No pressure, oh no. Not with the day my workload returns to normal looming ever closer, and the engineering course being dead in the water and this relationship being about the only thing that’s going well in my life right now! (And what happens when only one thing in one’s life is going well? It breaks, is what.) So me and my Colleague of Skull Scarves went for The Day’s Only Coffee and brainstormed stuff he might like to do.
All our plans hinged on it being sunny, however, and it was due to pee down all weekend. Woe. So I had to run up the allotment and snag about eight kilos of plums (total time invested: twenty minutes) and prep them all for the freezer ahead of the rain (total time invested: the entire rest of the sodding evening).
Have I done any more drawing/ writing/ studying/ anything that isn’t work or housework? Course I bloody haven’t!
And then it was too late cos the Bossman was round, and I was so lazy I ordered in Chinese rather than cook. Despite it costing good money I don’t have. This caffeine-crash better wear off soon, what.
The Bossman, having spent a week actually working hard, was in fine fettle and went through a bottle of rowan (the strawberry having been entirely consumed on Wednesday, whoops) while I was still finishing one very small glass. He pshawed my suggestion of visiting the science museum, informed me that if I wanted a go on a theremin, you can buy a kit to make your own for about twenty quid (and it involves a soldering iron! ooh!), put me straight on other esoteric matters and pissed himself laughing at the idea that a frumpy frock and fake wedding ring is going to save me from any kind of unwanted attention whatsoever.
At this point, I decided if the other shoe is going to drop, and I get dumped for other, less mad (and/or thick) women, I would prefer to know now, dammit. So I made the classic faux pas of bringing this up – only to be derailed when he suddenly declared that as soon as he took me to Nice, he was going to get dumped for other, more attractive men. (Pshaw! He can actually pin me against the ceiling; and knows how to build a theremin? And just off the top of his head, how much waterflow is required to live off-grid with all mod-cons intact? What could be more attractive? Also, he is Blond.)
So there’s a moral here, I guess – either there’s a special sort of stupidity which everyone can attain, regardless of how clever they are in all other regards; or me and him quite possibly Deserve each other (and not necessarily in a flattering manner).
But enough of that, for it was the witching hour and Nazis at the Centre of the Earth was on.