I know it’s shameful five days since blogging BUT.
Well excuses are just that arn’t they an exemption from a task and then seeking pardon for the said exemption.
I hope you will pardon me I am exhausted and I’ve only been back two days.
I’m not sleeping.
Getting back into the rhythm is hard.
I’m not exercising.
I feel miserable, anxious and now I have to go out to the theatre.
I say I have to go out – I’ve chosen to go – but what I really need is a sleeping draught/draft/.drapht.
Last night I opted to cook for three wonderful women as opposed to going to see Angelina Joli in her new film. I MUST BE MAD.
I drove up at 5.00 a.m, arrived at the flat at 6.15. Jumped into bed and slept until 10.00. I felt I had gerbils nesting in my sawdust brain.
On Sunday I did all the ironing in the cottage. I have now FINALLY decided that when I get a week off I am going to go away otherwise I come back to LBC more exhausted than when I left it.
Saturday night was Nigel Smith’s ‘Thank God He’s Still Alive’ party and Friday was a fine dining experience in Mayfield.
All in all by the time I woke up this morning – I use the expression loosely – by the time I hurled myself into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my howsyourfathers and dumped the rubbish I was ready for bed.
The show today was exemplary. SHIELA McQUEEN, ex model, dress shop owner, mother of two and soon to be under the knife, told us about her family in Grenada, growing up in the Carribbean and the loss of 13 women relations, all dead from Breast cancer. She is about to have a double mastectomy. Quietly and calmly she talked about her faith, her fear and her future hopes.
She invited me to be at the op. I think I may decline.
I am leaving this flat in 20 minutes to drive to Tottenham Court Road to watch a play about homophobia. I’m taking Bee and my purse, she’s bound to want something.
Tomorrow Jim and I are eating Argentinian in Spitalfields. Thursday I’m doing a two hour voice over before the show. Friday I’m collapsing and at the weekend I am NOT doing any housework whatsoever.
If Quentin Crisp and Simone DeBeauvoir can live in dusty squalor so can I.