Uptown Funk

I’ve lost my mojo a bit this week.

I’m not sure why, or how for that matter, but there’s a definite flatness to my being at the moment. So much so that Carole rings me at lunch time to check I’m ok.

I’m putting it down to a combination of things, and explaining it away that way. That seems to be the most sensible approach – take some things that are happening / have happened and blame them fully for my current funk.

The biggest, I think, is that this week is a break from my mum. She’s returned to the scene of her stroke for a couple of days with my aunt and the rest of the Whitby witches, so I don’t have to take any responsibility for anything. And that’s been a long time coming, especially with her release from hospital and all the kerfuffle with her tablets not arriving, then being the wrong dose. Throw into that a variety of tantrums about not being able to do things and it’s been nearly two months of absolutely knackering stress. Culminating in my uncle phoning my mum to see how she was and then dismissing the fact that she had two strokes because all her limbs work.

Then there’s the fact that I think I’m still trying to make up for Saturday night’s lack of sleep.

I think that, combined with the general exhaustion of the mum thing, has just destroyed me. It’s left me, at the moment, where my default state is one that cannot be arsed. Where I go to bed early because I’m tired, sleep until 5ish when I am then wide awake and fall back to sleep just after Carole leaves for work, waking again after 10.

I know I’ll snap out of it. I will, I’m just convinced I need a bloody good rest. Mentally more than physically, maybe.

I’ll be fine, though. Just give me five more minutes…


Cat’s Cradle

Peppa’s developed a new sleeping position. I don’t know if it’s just happened this way or she got used to sleeping on my side of the bed when I went to stay with my mum but she loves my side of the bed.

Since we’ve had her Peppa has always been a cat fond of human contact. She’ll climb all over you at any given opportunity. She won’t stay settled for ages, but she will generally recline upon you for a little while.

And now she’s started snuggling in to me as I sleep. But in what must be a tiny gap between my shoulders and the edge of the bed.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s adorable. It really is. It’s lovely that she wants to spend time close to us, and it’s better on a warm night than burrowing into the duvet and nestling round our feet.

But it does have its drawbacks.

Movement is restricted. Generally any thoughts you might have of moving an arm go out of the window when faced with her snoozing on the bed edge. This includes, but is not limited to, the operation of any alarms or just picking up your phone to check the time.

But the largest drawback is what happens when you wake up. You’re usually woken by a cat’s tail bitch slapping your face. Sometimes gently, sometimes with the same force you would imagine Thor puts into a hammer throw.

And you wake up.

And open your eyes.

Which is when you find that you’ve been sleeping, for who knows how long, with a cat’s arsehole far closer to your face that you ever thought you’d allow one to get.

It’s certainly one way of making sure you’re wide awake in a morning…

Match Up

Something footbally happened today and Huddersfield Town have been promoted to the Premiership or somesuch. I don’t pretend to understand, or care about, it in the slightest.

Which sets me aside from EVERY single other person who lives here.

People you have never known to even show a passing interest in football are no over-joyed at the news. Some of them even have shirts and scarves which, prior to this weekend, they probably didn’t have.

Suddenly, though, everyone is an expert. Everyone knows all that could possibly be known.

And then comes the best part – everyone is wishing each other well done and offering thanks for those wishes. Because they’ve really put in the effort to secure this victory and/or promotion in that sport that they watched.

I’ve seen people saying, on various social medias, that it’s been a tough day or a hard match. You’re just watching a game, that’s all it is. You’re not competing. There’s nothing tough about watching.

I realise there’s a chance, as you sit there in your shirt, that you might be called upon to actually play for your team. And I guess that kind of wait-and-see game can be tense.

Otherwise you’re just watching a sport on TV, or live. Undoubtedly, when you discuss it further, one in shich “we” did well, again implying a higher level of participation than is actually true.

Otherwise the inevitable celebratory bus ride would be a convoy of vehicles to fit everyone on and there’d be no-one left on the pavements to wave and cheer and take blurry selfies with what be an open-topped bus in the background.


Morning, I’m Broken

Carole ran a half-marathon today.

In Liverpool.

I’m very proud of her, and extremely pleased she did it – not only to show her that she can do stuff like that, but also because it means she’ll stop talking about the half-marathon she has coming up.

Until the next one, at least.

The fact that it was in Liverpool meant she had to set off early. The fact she had to set off early meant she had to get up early.  The fact she had to get up early meant she had to go to bed early. The fact she was running a half-marathon, that she almost never mentioned, meant she needed to sleep well.

Basically, she told me I had to sleep on the couch.

Which I tried, but couldn’t actually sleep. So stayed up until she got up at 4.30 and then went to bed, where I had about three hours sleep as I kept being woken by texts from Carole with a picture of her standing next to a bronze Beatle or telling me she loved me (I assume incase she died).

Oh, and because apparently 6am on a Sunday is the time some Council arse biscuit in a high vis jacket drives along all the pavements on a quad bike with some sort of water/magical unguent tanks on the back.


And very loudly.

Several times.

And then during the morning I started to wonder why Carole couldn’t have slept in the spare bedroom and I couldn’t have slept in the bed.

Or vice versa.


Day Of Rest

Today was the first Saturday in forever that we haven’t had to do anything. A day entirely free of any commitments, plans or necessities.

So, naturally, we were awake early.

As it happened, it was just as well we were up as the pharmacy have provided mother with a baffling array of tablets that either exceed her prescribed dose, or don’t match the pill description provided with the box.

We ended up, with mum protesting she felt like an idiot, going to a different pharmacy (because obviously hers is closed today) and getting them to double check everything.

Then checking what, if any, the effects of taking twice the dose of one tablet would be.

And then reassuring mum that she hadn’t been an idiot and was right to check everything. And that the only reason we were doing it for her was that she hadn’t yet ventured onto public transport or negotiated road crossing.

It’s just heart-breaking to see a proud woman lose confidence over something like this, branding herself stupid because her tablets weren’t right – something that had precisely cock all to do with anything she’d done. The whole experience from start to finish had gone tits up – it was only to expected.

And then Carole and I spent hours trying to go to a supermarket to buy about three things. Each time we settled on a place we aborted it as we got close due to traffic, full-ish car parks or, when it came to the last one, we just couldn’t be arsed.

Still, at least we had the day to just chill out and relax…

… oh, wait.