Yes, I did know Polly was away. I realise this means you have to warm your own bed, but squawking about it repeatedly at 1am and then again at 4am will not miraculously make her appear. Instead, it will summon THE OGRE, who will STOMP and HISS and WAVE HER ARMS and cause you to make an undignified exit stage left at high speed. THE OGRE will then retire to her swamp and visualise inventive ways of torturing cats while trying to go back to sleep.
And there will still be no Polly, so just STFU about it because you'd make a good set of hand warmers and I'm at my least charitable in the middle of the night. Just saying. Your Mum will be home tonight whether you squawk or not.
Hi, I'm Tats and I'm a crock.
Seriously, normally I'm pretty healthy and I do consider it a blessing for which I'm grateful, that I have good feet, good teeth and a robust constitution. Just, not at the moment.
I have my period. In and of itself this isn't a big deal - I don't have endometriosis or even bad cramping, but the sad reality is that it's the cause of my ongoing anaemia and at this time I'm low in iron and generally not as thrifty.
I have the Dreaded Lurgy. So what? Everyone has it. Yep, that's true, and I've no doubt everyone's feeling equally crappy. But I should be getting better by now - it's been three days. Instead, I'm getting worse. There's more snot, more headaches and now the extra added bonus of being slightly feverish and waking up in a puddle of my own sweat. My lips are cracked and my throat hurts from mouth-breathing. PITY ME!
I am having trouble sleeping. Like, taking an hour and a half or more to go to sleep, and waking regularly through the night. Even if I have my last coffee at 10am.
Bouts of sentimental crying. I'm told this is normal but fucking fuck, I really don't need more snot right now, y'know?
I figure it's that coping thing. One thing the British do really well is cope. Read some British history one day and you'll see why. No, I'm not talking about the upper class colonialists who invented white privilege and who everyone loves to hate - I'm talking about your bog standard Brit whose family (the ones that didn't get murdered for being the wrong religion at the wrong time) were probably slaves, then serfs, then servants to the gentry for several generations before escaping into the auspiciousness of owning one's own blacksmithing business. Yes, that's my family history, what's yours?
Anyway, one thing my family does really well is cope. Give us a crisis and we come into our own, managing and handling and doing practical things to get us and everyone else through the tough stuff. Stoic, us. Stiff upper lip, ramrod up the spine, all that.
So what happens when we don't have to cope any more? We fall apart. Duh.
This is where I'm at now. I can afford to be sick so I'll do it good and proper. I can afford to be teary so I'll cry all the time. I don't have to get up to go to work so I'll toss and turn all night.
Meanwhile, now that I don't have to be strong for Mum any more and my world isn't overshadowed by her illness, I'm remembering what it was like before she got sick, and that makes me rail ineffectually at the unfairness of it all and also reminisce about the way things with Mum used to be, and that makes me cry some more.
I am assuming this is a phase and that it'll pass. It's all a bit much right now, and I'd love to just go to sleep and stay like that until things get better. Or at least until there's less snot.
* PS It wasn't till I watched Merlin (the Sam Neill one, not the silly TV one) that I realised you are named after Queen Mab's assistant and not a euphemism for a cuss-word.