A trial of patience

I speak to my brother nearly every day over GChat while he’s stationed over in Djibouti. Our conversations in the run up to Christmas have been . . . interesting.

20 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: You’re a couple days off

21 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: Um, still not Boxing Day.

22 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: Hrm.

23 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: . . .

24 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: Almost.

25 December

Brother: Happy Boxing Day!

Me: Happy Christmas!

26 December


Brother: merry christmas


They only want you when you’re 17

When you’re 21, you’re no fun.

Found this picture lying around at the parental in-laws. I was 22, in fairness – but then those song lyrics wouldn’t work.

Oh, to be 22, possessing Photoshop skills… They were simpler times.

Actually, there’s no way I wish them back. I was pretty insecure and I probably hadn’t eaten for 5 days. So I was digitally mysterious –  and really fucking hungry.

* * * * *

It’s Christmas Eve. I’ve made it back to Essex. I stood up on the train the whole way last night because there were no seats. And I’m sick again for the second time in as many weeks. Also, I forgot about the coffee situation in Essex – that is to say, it doesn’t exist. How have I managed this oversight?

Aside from figuring out the caffeination situation, I have to wrap some presents. I hate wrapping presents.

Joyeux noël, bitches.

Peace out, good will toward men. And women.

It’s a Violent Femmes kind of night

All day today it felt like Friday in the office. But it was Wednesday. Why was it Wednesday?

Two more days in the office and then I’m off for a week in the Essex countryside for Christmas. I’ve been feeling run down lately, so I was really looking forward to all this down time. But already I can tell that I’m going to get a bit restless. I’m never good at just sitting around doing nothing.

Plus, ongoing hip problems are ongoing. My GP is giving me the runaround. Even though I’ve been seeing an osteo for over half a year and have been told that I have SI joint dysfunction/hypermobile joints/a shortened right hip flexor, my GP wants me to go see his osteo to get a ‘definitive diagnosis’. Whatever. Next available appointment is in the new year. I love the NHS and all. But, man, do I hate the NHS.

Not cycling and taking a break from ashtanga – as everyone and their Great Aunt Mary advised me to do – has in fact left me in worse stead, so I’m back on the bike and back to waking up at 6am for a cold, dark start in the yoga studio before the rest of the world is even out of bed. Sometimes as I’m peddling up over Tower Bridge before dawn in the freezing winter rain with a white van man up my ass, I can see why outsiders might think I’m a bit of a psychopath for signing myself up for this willingly.

But it eases the tension, I swear. Just imagine what I’d be like without it. Yeah, yikes.

For fuck’s sake, why is it Wednesday.

Violent Femmes – Add It Up