annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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Friday

Daughter and I are considering going up North, a plan we started just before lockdown. We want to go to Shibden Hall, home of Anne Lister, as seen in Gentleman Jack, and visit a few friends. I don't know if we'll be able to - it's the expense, of course. I'm meant to be costing it out but, here comes an admission, I don't know how hotels work. I've hardly ever stayed in a hotel. The last time was in 2007, I think. It always makes me very anxious because I don't know the rules, what you're meant to do and not do. I can cope with that though, it's just anxiety, my old friend. But what do the ads mean? Like I looked on a cheap budget line and it said £59 per night for a twin-bedded room. Is that per person? Or for the room? Air bnb just does my head in - far too much going on.
I came face to face with the reality of brain fog today, in public. I'd been to see Daughter and was driving along the coast road on my way to have a swim. On realising I'd only eaten a slice of toast I thought if there was a parking space I'd stop and go to a cafe, if not I'd grab a sandwich from the petrol station. Parking space, yay, only took me two goes to get in, still not used to the size of this Focus I drive, but it's done, I go to the cafe. Pedestrianised street, short, opposite the footbridge across the river, seagulls swooping and squawking, kids on bikes, quite busy. Since I was last there the cafe's changed hands and had a total refurb, including the menu. All black and white, geometric shapes and green tables and chair outside. I'd had in mind a toasted cheese sandwich. Don't know why. I go to the counter and look at the menu - it's all complicated, panini with goat's cheese and blah blah blah. I mean, it's not really complicated, but it doesn't have toasted cheese sandwich in big letters that I can see at once and I'm overwhelmed with the impossibility of reading it all and holding the options in my head for long enough to decide. I have often been told that my thoughts and opinions are writ large upon my face and so it would seem as the waitress hurried over and asked if I was OK in a tone of great concern. I said I'd fancied a toasted cheese sandwich and now was stuck so she called over to ask the cook if he'd do one for me and he grinned and said yes, of course, and there it was in no time on sourdough bread with a nice little pile of green salad in a tasty vinaigrette. I did explain that I'd had Covid and seem to be stuck with this brain fog and we debated whether it was better or worse than the months of no taste and smell that she'd had, but I can't imagine that - awful. This is OK, mostly. When I'm bimbling about with my own thoughts it all feels fine, but questions defeat me, even questions about myself. 
The beach was virtually empty - after all the sewage overflow no doubt. I've been following the Surfers Against Sewage site as they test everywhere and update daily and they said it was clean - they wouldn't lie, much more trustworthy than any official site these days. I'd put my bikini on before I left home, under my dress, saves changing on the beach, so, off with the dress, into the water, lovely, so refreshing for mind, body and spirit. Sit in the sun and read my book then start getting dressed and ready to go to MH's for a bit. But the underwear I'd brought, what I thought had been one crop top and one pair of knickers, turned out to be two crop tops. So no knickers, one short dress and quite a strong wind. Sigh. Luckily, while having a good rummage about in my shopping trolley of beach gear, in case there were some knickers lurking at the bottom, I discovered a pair of trousers, proper old hippy wrap-around trousers that looked quite mental under my dress but better than the alternatives. 
 
I feel I'd like to do something significant on the anniversary of Sam's death, Sept 1st, but I've no idea what. Maybe I'll go and sit somewhere on my own and write to her.

12:46 a.m. - 27.08.22

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