annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You can't make me It's been a bit shit to be honest. Not everything, but too much. It's back to that thing where I almost feel as if I'm making it up about my mental ill health, then a few setbacks have me completely adrift. Yesterday the car was booked into the garage but it wouldn't start. Bloke couldn't find his charger, we couldn't get a tow-truck before the end of the fucking millenium and even if we could it was going to cost a gazillion pounds. So there was that. In the end Bloke went and borrowed a charger from his mate but it all got very tight getting it to the garage and home again in time for me to do my yin yoga. But we made it and I kept falling asleep, in virtually every pose. Yin yoga is floor-based and uses a lot of props so you get into a pose and stay there for five minutes, relaxing into it - like lying on your back, arms out at your sides, palms up, feet on the floor, then let your knees fall to one side, keeping both your shoulders down on the floor. Five minutes then do it on the other side. Realx. "Find the stillness," they say. Stretches and soothes. Not when you fall asleep it doesn't because you wake up with a sudden start. Fucking hell, I did it on almost every pose and came out a nervous wreck. I decided I couldn't face hetting my act together quickly and going to the first sewing group because what about Covid? Who else would be there and what kind of lives do they lead and have they been vaxxed and all too hard, not for me tonight, thanks and all. But then it went on like that, with incomprehensible communications about fuck ups with online banking, paypal, lottery shit and blah blah blah. An email, a text and a weird payment when I checked my bank balance. I tried to sort them out, starting with the bank but I couldn't get anywhere, I couldn't hold all the details and the bank screen kept logging me out and it wound me up even more so I gave up. Ate my fish pie that I'd made the day before - managed to not eat it all at once by making two pies. That's pie with a potato topping not pastry. I'm not an animal. Watched telly. That Four Lives. Shocking. Woke up late this morning, but got right on the phone to the bank. Takes forever to get to speak to anyone these days - you have to go through all this security with the automated voice that can never make sense of my security questions and keeps repeating the fucking question until I start quietly weeping. In the end I made it, very nice scouser lass, she'd had Covid before Christmas too, as well as Son I mean, not me, and it was nowhere near as bad as she'd feared, but she's been vaxxed, unlike one of her mam's mates, who hasn't been vaxxed and is in hospital. We got onto my finances in the end and it was a bank cock-up! Woo hoo, I'm not crazy. Well, I felt that way for a bit, then I tried to deal with pay pal and that turned out to be entirely of my own misinterpretation, which was dead clear once my mistake was pointed out. She was nice too, though we didn't get off topic as the call was being recorded for training purposes. So, off to the assessment at the Museum for my new art group. Nothing stress-inducing, just a chat to see where I'm at with both my mental health and my art practice, but all that faffing about meant I hadn't had anything to eat and didn't have time to park in the free place and walk, but had to drive straight there on an empty stomach, find a spot, park and pay for it. I made it in time but I had to decide then if I was just going to the assessment, with me and one woman for half an hour, or to stay on for the first art session, with an unknown number of people, for two hours. Covid again. What are we up to? One in fifteen people currently have it? Momentary panic, but fuck it, I can't decide, it's only a few quid, buy a three hour ticket and keep in mind the option to leave if you don't feel safe. You don't have to stay just because you can. Cool. As I get out of the car I catch the back of my hand on something and scrape the skin, making it bleed. I licked it a bit, put on my mask and headed into the museum. Lovely spacious Victorian building, recently done up so all clean and bright and welcoming. But no, the art doesn't start till next week, said the old man at the reception desk and the natty woman hovering about in matching polo shirts and lanyards. 'It does! I wrote it down, 7th Jan, 1.30! I wouldn't have known 7th of Jan was a Friday if she hadn't made the appointment with me!' I'll admit, I was starting to cry a bit, but I bit it back while they looked to see if they had a phone number, and wandered into the room to the right where there was a big ceramic pot full of ceramic knitting needles that was quite cool and calmed me down a bit, till they said they didn't have a number and it was late now and the art woman had never been late so never mind and come back next week, eh? 'But I've paid for three hours parking!' which did get some sympathetic sounds but nothing useful. I said I was really cross, but even as I was saying it I realised I sounded pathetic rather than angry, and that was crap too. So I stomped off, wiped my eyes, and realised that the back of my hand was still fucking bleeding and had bled onto the cuffs my jacket and my jumper, both of which had been Sammie's that I'd kept and wear sometimes for a bit of comfort, but now with horrid brown marks all over the sleeve and I'd wiped blood on my face too. And I kind of lost it. I'd been holding on by an ever narrower thread until it suddenly snapped - it had all been too hard, all day yesterday and all day today and I'd achieved nothing - no new sewing group, no new art group, still not got my car back, still driving that fucking car of Bloke's that turns the windscreen wipers on and off without asking and I hadn't even had any breakfast and and and... I went to the good deli and had one of their delicious falafel wraps and got some tissues to clean up the blood and they were very nice and I came home and got Bloke to light the fire and the garage phoned and it's a blahblahblah that needs to be ordered but should arrive on Monday so it'll be done by then and if it's this it'll cost £200 and if it's that it'll cost £400 but they can def mend it and either of those prices are cheaper than having to buy another cheap secondhand car. But I haven't done any walking, only .75 of a mile today, because it was pissing down with rain and I don't have to and you can't make me. My average for the week is 2.6 miles so it's OK. Today I am grateful for the woman yesterday that found my purse by the coffee van in the layby by the river, before I even noticed I'd lost it, and drove to my house to put it through the letterbox with a note. How kind is that? All my cards, £15 in cash and my driving license which is where she found my address. Blessed be. And tomorrow is another day, Cynthia. I don't know where that comes from with Cynthia on the end but I like it. Night night xxx 1:02 a.m. - 08.01.22 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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