A wind of slavic melancholy is blowing across the frozen steppes of Uccle today. I feel I need a large, droopy moustache to do it justice. Maybe a pipe. Certainly vodka. I imagine it looks a little like Antonia's fantastic film. If you are in the mood for uplifting, feeling a little fragile and in need of light entertainment, click away now. Maybe go and read this article, which I really enjoyed. That lady would not allow herself to get mired in moustache wearing gloom.
The icy spiritual chill is probably partly attributable to my deciding I need to lose some weight this week. Yes, just this week, I find the urge passes very rapidly regardless of whether I obtain results or not. I bought Elle Belgique on the strength of its quixotic cover promise of a one week detox, only to cast it aside at the first mention of 'bouillon'. Screw bouillon. I favour more radical methods, like, having a bath at dinnertime so that I get too sleepy and dazed to bother with food, or not leaving my desk all day. No, you are quite right, voices of reason. This is not sensible behaviour for a former bulimic. But then neither is mainlining cupcakes and peanut butter Chunky KitKats, which has brought me to this point. And to these chins.
Is this a sign of poor mental health? Yes, probably. It usually is. I am a little sad and a lot anxious. Work is tricky, family members are distressingly far away when I want to be round the corner and of some use to them, progress on writing projects is nil and the future seems to sit on the horizon like an ominous Brussels raincloud. On top of that, I had such a hard time saying goodbye to the boys today, especially as half term means I won't see them for a fortnight. Things have been so busy and fraught over the past few months, that I haven't really had time to miss them. I do now, even though things haven't really calmed down that much. A bit like coming off anti-depressants, the effect of spending less time with them didn't hit me immediately, but it has crept up, insidiously. I am in withdrawal and it's hard. I'm in London for most of this week, and that's a quick, radical fix - busy, gregarious, with time spent squeezing my niece and nephew. But I live here, and I will for the foreseeable future. I need to find better ways of coping. I need to get out and get over myself, and I sort of am. Just, not on Siberian Mondays.
I looked at my hand this morning when I reached the office and saw this:
Not the mysterious blue waffle infection.
The pattern of green dots that Fingers for mysterious reasons all his own, drew all over his hand and arm this morning, had transferred to me. Transferred because he won't let go of my hand, nor me of his. He barely let go of me all weekend, and today I feel like I have a limb missing.
God, how depressing (incidentally, I am very sorry but I am too much of a miserable chaotic bastard to cope with Cruel biscuits this week, so Vicious Valentines are off). I'll try and perk things up a little soon, rather than dragging you down in a swirl of Tchaikovsky's 6th and facial hair. If I'm still this miserable tomorrow you have permission to brain me with the nearest samovar.
(And no, I don't know what the fuck is up with the oddly large font.)