A reasonably satisfactory level of boredom was achieved on Monday, I think. Tuesday was also pleasantly dull, if I remember, which I spent on my questionnaire for the social worker, on the fascinating subject of My Personal History. Initially I felt quite embarrassed about tackling questions such as "Describe what sort of person you partner is". And "How do you get on with your family?". These seemed impossibly broad, but I suppose stringing a few sentences together every week on my blog has helped me get more comfortable with de wurds, and before I knew it I had spun whole pages out of Our Relationship, My Upbringing, My Worldview, and How It Is To Be Part Of A Minority Religion in This Country of Ireland. Blimey. In the end, I basically wrote a short novel, working title My Fantastic Self. Poor Detective. I fear I came across as a rather high-minded, smug, no-singing, no-dancing kind of person, a hand me down my hairshirt, I had a half a glass of wine last week character, a make my own clothes out of a recycled burlap sack type, but who knows? It's one of life's mysteries, isn't it, what other people really make of you. Best not know, perhaps.
I think it's safe to surmise, though, that her head must be wrecked. Still it was nice (for me, at least) to retell to myself the story of my happy childhood. Secure, privileged, golden times, featuring swimming with ponies, going to France on holidays, breaking a hairbrush on my brother, that kind of thing.
I met her on Wednesday. Even I found it exhausting, ploughing through My Fantastic Self, Parts I and II, even with one as smiley and noddy as the Detective. I fell out of there after an hour and a half, leaving the now broken-spirited sleuth behind me, crippled with carpal tunnel syndrome after paging wearily through Part III, and myself good for nothing except a lie-down in a darkened room.
That was that. Two down, four to go.
For whatever reason I have more and more visitors, (lurkers seems a negative term, does it not, reminiscient of flashers in the shadows and such like? I prefer to think of them/you as people who appear silhouetted at my open door, and then leave, dropping a visiting card in their wake, with the words, Boyle, California or Canterbury, Hawaii inscribed on them.
(Place names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Ahoy there! in any case. You are most welcome.
Meanwhile, in south west Ireland, KDiddy has been transferred to a convalescent place in a nearby town, because he didn't get the chest infection and was given the green light for physio. We are going to visit him on Monday, hire a car and sort of bring him tinned peaches or Easter eggs or something.
[*Edited to add latest news: He's back in hospital with a possible urinary tract infection. Poor man. Oh sigh. We're to go down tomorrow to see him.]
Ah yes, one more thing. PsychoKitty has morphed into a huge comic monster. I cannae contain her! I dinnae have the poower, Scottie! I have been drawing, thinking about it and, as is my wont, the project has become vast and sprawling. A serious rethink and edit will be required before I unleash her and you suffer a similar fate as the Detective. I will get to that soon, I hope.
In the meantime, a banner for the Titanic, which I did for a kids' educational site last week:
Also, some Native Americans:
It's better this way, trust me.