Here I am.
By rights I should have nearly finished that project from hell, that suffocating paper avalanche, but, most confusingly, the deadline has been moved to an as yet unknown date in the next (up to) four weeks. The goalposts not so much moved, that is disorientating enough, this time, they have dashed off into the mist, most likely to pop up and gurn in my face in a few days. It's really odd, what this GO GO, NO, STOP, HURRY and WAIT does to a person. And re-GO GO GO. Me adrenals are knackered. Awkwarder yet is the fact that the old friend who got me this job thinks he is doing me a massive favour, which of course he is, but you know, Too Much of a Good Thing. It's like being asked to sit down at a magnificent banquet and eat it all in 10 minutes. Also, I don't know how to tell him not to pile another one on top of this without seeming horribly ungrateful.
In the meantime, I somehow defaulted my way into a show with some intimidatingly well-known artists in mid-April and also somehow must wearily regird my loins in time for that. Oh holiday, wherefore art thou? I keep thinking of a wonderful day when I can.. not work! You know! Sort of just.. be!
Not to moan incessantly about my charmed life. Ehem.
Apropos of nothing, I enjoyed Spike's birthday party enormously. I know one is supposed to be shocked at the speed at Which They Grow, but for whatever reason I am surprised that he is still only seven. He's been around forever! Shouldn't he be in college by now? And Dazzle is still only three. Three! Anyway, be that as it may, his grandmother's cousin was there, a woman reputed to be a blurter, shall we say. (Read: MAD AS A HATTER.) Famously she once observed, on seeing her niece's husband: A poor specimen. And about my brother she declared: An ADONIS!
HAHAHA. An Adonis!
Oh! A news item! I went to see that counsellor. He turned out to be a twinkly older man who effortlessly sprang up the six floors of the tall Georgian building in which he "sees" people. He picked up The Whole Sorry Tale and the dynamic very quickly and it was strangely comforting to hear that All This Is Actually Not My Fault from an objective and professionally wise person. He had some enlightening things to say on the subject of how I am prone to carrying the can and trying to make All The Things Nice for everyone. (Sorry about the caps. I can't help it! I Have Caps Disorder!) which I now see as something I learned from my mother in the face of my father, he of the hothead. One hates to be a Walking Cliché, but there you have it. I try to manage, to calm, to smooth. What a pain in the arse. He concluded that in his opinion we were not in crisis, per se, but that he'd always make time for us if we should need to see him. This is a big comfort. Also, as I suspected, the JB, seeing I came back feeling better, has asked for Twinkly's details. I will do what I can (without being a total pain, one hopes) to encourage him to follow through, because my poor JB does seem by turns depressed and giddy. (Must not make self responsible! Must not manage! Must not take all worries on self!)
[If I had a penny for every time I've been asked the dreaded question "what are you thinking about?" (guaranteed to make my mind go blank) in my life, I'd have a euro at least. I must have a thoughtful aspect, sadly an illusion, for I am usually thinking about marmalade, or the contents of my fridge if, indeed, anything at all. Quite a bit of the time, I'm just coasting mindlessly. Twinkly observed at one point: I can see your mind going, there. What are you thinking? And I was wondering how they got that sidetable with a marble base up all those stairs.]
What are you thinking, readers? Heh.
I have been visiting you, hastily, but I've really missed cheering myself up with your company, continuing our conversation, and staring out the window, thinking about very little.
Soon, friends, soon.
For upcoming show.