Thank you very much for the ear sympathy. Fascinating/disgusting report: it's quite a bit better, has deflated to a more normal dimension and I can almost hear through a minor static interference. An improvement. I am sporting an impressive Augmentin pallor, however, the kind you otherwise get from being a consumptive, or doing a long stretch inside.
Some of you have kindly enquired as to the progress of our declaration, and so, let us indeed marvel at the smoky and clogged engine that is the relevant Authority, the cogs of which do turn extraordinarily slowly. Our paperwork is all complete, and now lacks only a stamp of approval from the Authority before we are cleared for take-off and it will all be sent on to India. Mysteriously, however, the Authority cannot seem to stamp the documents in good time, and oh dear! They are so backed-up! And lifting the stamp is so tiring! You'd be wrecked doing it!
Uffa, as Italians have it. UFFA.
As it happens, India itself is closed to new applications until January, while it reconfigures its own system. So if one wanted to be one of those perky, positive people, one could say that at least the two delays are coinciding. But, I don't know, maybe in my youth I read too many moralistic children's stories, wherein the poor blighters wore saggy, wool swimming trunks and were always getting their comeuppance but all this is taking on the aspect of a very heavy-handed karmic lesson. Festina fecking lente, etc. Embrace the crap life you are living. Live in the fecking moment. Seize the saucepan and brain your spouse the day. GOT THE MESSAGE, Universe.
Let it unfold.
That's the hardest, isn't it. The JB and I had a most weird conversation the other night. I know this is going to sound rather bleak, but let's not panic here, it's really okay. It's not as dire as all that. In fact, it's almost as if talking about these things make them more manageable. In a way.
Imagine the following being all conducted in the most lack-lustre tones, like we are discussing our rubbish collection, and whether the green bin alternates with the black every two weeks, or not:
JB, comes in after work, flops on sofa: Sorry about this morning. (He stamped off earlier in the day, in a snit over my response to the delays as above.) I just feel like throwing in the towel, sometimes. It feels to me like our wheels are spinning.
T: What do you mean, throwing in the towel?
JB: You know, giving up, leaving.
T, still with zero inflection: Ah. Breaking up?
T: Oh. Well, if that's what you want to do.
I simply had no response anymore, felt calm, in a "Ah well, 'tis the tapestry of life." way, and just lolled there like a badly stuffed doll. I can't continue to keep the show on the road. He is simply going to have to decide for himself. Every suggestion I make - counselling, research, bereavement groups, reading the helpful, straightforward The Portable Therapist - he won't do any of it. He doesn't recognise that the feelings aren't the problem, it's the defeatist behaviour that is. Of course I know that he doesn't mean what he says, he's not going to leave, he loves me, and blah, blah, blah, but those words still undermine my faith in us. My brain starts whirring. The genie is out of the bottle, and I am thinking with half my brain, the part May beautifully describes as sitting there eating popcorn through it all: Blimey. What would that be like? Where would I live? Huh.
The human brain, if mine is anything to go by, anyway, abhors a vacuum. It - I - want to know where my next meal is coming from, at the most basic level. I find it so hard to keep the vision of the alternative lives beside each other in my head, and not preempt whatever will be, and not throw myself on my sword.
Of course there was much apologising and forgiving later. But what has been said cannot be unsaid.
She makes herself comfortable.