annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Day 114

Today has been shite really.

I remember that supposedly 17th century nun's prayer, especially this bit: "Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. " But this is my blog, so just skip the next paragraph.

The area round the wound on my leg was hot and red this morning - ach I was going to write it all out so I could remember it but it's a load of fucking aggro that went on all day and the upshot is I don't know if it's infected, though it probably is. And it bloody hurts - going to be massive bruises all up my leg. I took a photo for reference to see how it changes and you can see the bruises already starting to appear. But I've taken my codeine and should be OK now.

I'm so pissed off though. And pissed off that I'm pissed off. I've kept myself pretty chipper most of the time through all this and now I've lost the plot over a sore leg. I have a mad urge to walk for miles over the hills in the wind, to go to the best beach at low tide, to be outdoors, dammit, outdoors. But there you go. Lucky me to only have a bad leg to moan about.

Though obviously I can moan about more than that. Like, for example I bought a couple of crop tops online and now all of my social media are full of ads for them but I've already bought them you twats. Fuck off.

Pubs are opening tomorrow. With restrictions about space and what have you. Many of them are operating a booking system with a limited time per group but from the local FB page it seems some people have booked themselves into a series of pubs to cover the whole day. It feels like a good day to stay in, no matter how grumpy you are.

Also pissed off that this, which appeared on FB and which I posted on twitter:

'The taverns are full of gadabouts making merry this eve. And though I may press my face against the window like an urchin at a confectioners, I am tempted not by the sweetmeats within. A dram in exchange for the pox is an ill bargain indeed.' Samuel Pepys, Diary, London 1665.

turns out to be fake. Someone commented that it was, so I checked Pepys diary for 1665, which was the year of the plague. Here's the link, it's great:

and there was no sign of that about the taverns, but what I did find was this, from June 30th 1665:

Consideration of removing my wife to Woolwich. She lately busy in learning to paint, with great pleasure and successe.

which I just love. Yeah, me and Lizzie Pepys, we know how to rock a plague year - learn to paint.

Friday writing group was good. I was the only person who'd been there last week so we did the same again, as I didn't mind - new stuff always appears. I liked this bit best of mine today. Ten minutes starting with the words 'that summer'.

That summer was windy too. We lived in a house on the beach, and swam a lot at low tide, when the water was shallow and the waves not too scary, but it was always too windy to enjoy sitting outside with a book. I was a teacher on my six week summer break with a houseful of teenagers. I'd recently done a post-grad Creative Writing diploma and had half a novel written.

Gradually a pattern emerged. I dressed each morning in a bikini and sarong and sat at my PC by the window in the first floor living room, bashing out the words of my novel.  The kids and their pals drifted in and out of the room in vast hordes, playing music, watching The Young Ones on video. again and again, smoking scrawny roll-ups, and all talking at once, ebbing and flowing.

When they got on my nerves, or the words dried up, I went for a swim off the pebbly beach, my hair getting stiffer and stickier as the weeks passed. I was able to block out the noise of the kids mostly, concentrating on my characters, listening to what they were saying. They were useful sometimes, when I needed a name for an old man - what are your granddads called? Alf Rodway. Thanks, I'm using that!. What hobbies? Old cigarette cards, takes them out and looks at them? Perfect!

Somehow I got brown as a berry, my hair bleached right out and I was as slim as I've ever been, eating salads and sandwiches, fish and chips on Fridays. That rhythm worked for us all. By the end of August I'd say, "Swim!" and we'd trail through the 60s built estate, to the wild and windy beach, me and a raggle-taggle crowd of rowdy teenagers, who by this time felt the novel was theirs too.

It's mostly true.

Bed now. Today I am grateful for: chat with Son; lovely yoga nidra, where I just lay down, barely moved at all and felt better after; warm slippers, warm bed; tomorrow is another day

Night night xxx


11:43 p.m. - 03.07.20


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