So, my lovelies, The Woman couldn't make it that Saturday night, and my readiness to Say Something has therefore been thwarted. Heaven help the next person who makes me feel I should, is all I can say. A river of somethings is likely to gush over his or her head.
(Oh dear, that sounded a bit disgusting.)
Anyway! On to other first world moanings on the nature of being an adult. Isn't it hard work? Isn't it? Or are there people to whom this comes naturally? I certainly feel the manual that I should have been given at birth called: Life: operation thereof, has been lost, if I ever had it. My mother was not bossy and a bit untidy herself and I was the absent-minded, dreamy type. I was probably staring out of the window when she tried to teach me stuff. I can, if I really make a huge effort, remember all the stuff you function as an adult. The bills, the servicing of boilers, taxes, vitamins, the cleaning of the washing machine filter, the cholesterol checks, the birthday cards, the visits to the vet. But, if another minor thing intervenes, like, you know, a Job, or a Mood, or if I just see something shiny, it all collapses instantly, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that not everything is being taken care of. When I was single, oddly enough, I was more functional. I knew it was all on me, and I had - if not a system - certainly some folders. Now, no. Now, the JB and I look at each other in dismay and say what? I thought you were taking care of that.
Somewhat relatedly, on my apartment, the one recently abandoned by The Hungarians of the Hunted Look: when we (I brought a unflappable male friend, just in case) burst through the door, the place had a messy, suddenly abandoned look, part-Tracy Emin, part-student digs, but there was no damage to speak of, just a little wear and tear. Why they pushed off in this flighty, imprudent, way, I will never know. Interpol? Mafia connections? Just young and dramatic? Anyway, anyway, I am relieved, and oddly enough quite enjoying cleaning the place and making it presentable.
(I put this down to the recent return of Betty, my alter-ego, who appears when I have one of my strange ocular migraines. She likes mundane tasks.)
What was I saying? Yeah. The Hungarians of the Hunted Look left behind enough hair and beauty products to sink a battleship.Which led me to distracting thoughts about feminity: I had not realised how low-maintenance I am. Soap, yes, shampoo, also. Enough make-up to not seriously ill, eh, you know, some clothes, and out the door with my hair wet. How about you? I have heard stories about women who get up at five to dry their hair and put their eyelashes on, but this is all as a fascinating mystery to me. I'd love to hear how it is chez toi. Am I missing something? I wonder, for instance if Products make a difference to my hair which has made the leap from Orange Cocker Spaniel to Richard III since my last haircut:
Yes. Definitely Richard.
(Sorry about the lack here of anything of any consequence whatsoever. I am working up to explaining where things stand vis-a-vis the adoption, but it requires thought, and, you know how it is, it's rather demoralising not to have Exciting News. Bleah. )