Incoming

I have not gone to the gym because I am feeling bleak and miserable.

I know that this is exactly the wrong reason for not going to the gym. Absolutely anybody would tell me if I want some serotonin then I jolly well need to march in there and show that rowing machine that I mean business. 

Absolutely anybody can get lost.

I am feeling gloomy and grey and I have come to sit in the dark on the quiet taxi rank to wallow in self pity for a while. It is raining hard, and I am undisturbed. 

Actually I am not wallowing in very much self pity. Perhaps I have wiggled my toes at its edges.

In fact I have been reading my current library book, which is a biography of Steve Jobs. I have read it before, but it was years ago, and I have forgotten most of it. It is a rather splendid book, Steve Jobs is the sort of chap that inspires a mixture of admiration and horror and intrigue, in more or less equal quantities, if ever there was a poster child for Asperger’s Syndrome he is your man. 

It is a good distraction from a dark mood, if not exactly an antidote.

I do not know exactly why I am feeling so dreary, unless it is because I have got hormones again. We did not go away today, because the camper van brake replacement operation developed some unexpected complications, and Mark did not finish it until late this afternoon. I suppose we could have packed up and gone then, but half of the pleasure in an adventure is in looking forward to it, and I had lost that bit by then.

I went to have my hair cut whilst Mark was crawling about underneath the camper van. This hardly qualifies as a fair division of labour, but since I would not recognise a brake pad if it was served up to me with a side order of salad and fries, I could not do very much that could be considered to be usefully helpful.

It was nice to have a haircut, although I have been fidgeting about with prickly neck syndrome ever since. My hair is short and tidy, and shinily clean in the special professional way that hairdressers do it, and I have had a nice cup of coffee and a satisfying chat to the hairdresser, none of which, regrettably, alleviated the joyless mood.

Once I had been elegantly shorn, and had brushed all the stray hairs downwards to lodge in my underwear, I went to Asda.

If ever there was a place suited to a dour mood, it is Asda.

We will draw a veil over that part of the day. It was just after school chucking-out-time. People were practically fighting over the last sausages to take home for tea. It was not lovely.

I had a break from writing there to drink tea and listen to the radio. It appears that Theresa May’s day has been considerably worse than mine, even though she probably didn’t go to Asda. I don’t in the least blame her. After doing your best at work and still being shouted at by everybody, imagine queueing for the self-service checkout only to remember at the last minute that you had forgotten sausages and teabags.

Also I discovered during this contemplative moment that the reason for the bleak mood is in fact an incoming migraine. This enlightenment arrived as the first warning fuzz appeared in the corners of my eyes and the Steve Jobs book dissolved into an incomprehensible blur.

I am very relieved indeed about this, I would be sorry to think that the world had suddenly become a depressing place whilst I was thinking about something else. It is not after all. It is only a migraine.

I am going to take some drugs and go home to bed, if I am lucky I might have caught it soon enough to avoid it.

I will see you tomorrow.

Have a picture of a haircut.