Just call me Mrs. Bean...

Inevitably, the clumsiness, insomnia, the bitching, the forgetfulness, the lack of appetite et al have all returned with a sneaky vengeance. I dropped my deodorant in the sink of water, couldn't manage to place hairpins on the shelf - twice, and dropped a china cat bowl in the sink, nearly breaking it and the other one. (The cat bowl is china, not the cat, in case you were wondering.) I've been swearing profusely at everything, nothing and at the television and some of its astonishingly irritating "presenters", which is ironic in my view, as their appearances are invariably less than decent. I'm a bitch again, I told you. I've been berating "Art", bitter at the creators' success when I think little or less of what has been made. I think my Artwork is far better. Obviously. I insult the cats for not moving out of my way, for just sitting there. There. Where I need to go. MOVE. You want to go out? You don't? Well don't scratch the fucking door. Stop it. Out. Food? Here's your food. Oh don't be so bloody fussy.

Poor sods. It's not their fault this (hopefully only) temporarily deranged bint isn't sure of why the hell she was going that way in the first instance. It's not their fault he doesn't want Whiskas Whitefish now when he couldn't eat it fast enough that morning. No, wait... whatever, it pisses me right off. It's plainly not a situation whereby swearing will solve a problem. It doesn't even make me feel better, I just get annoyed with myself for being so pathetic and angered by a beautiful animal, whom I adore completely. Apart from the door-scratching and fussy eating.

My Ma has noticed - as have I - that the really rather unpleasant premenstrual look has also reappeared. It's a strange occurrence: I look more pale than usual (I'm already whiter than white...); the dark (Jewishish) circles under my eyes are more noticeable; my gait is slightly different, more like the BWAT of previous months; my eyes are heavy, glazed, the result of lack of sleep and/or broken sleep; my face is sullen, almost frowning most of the time.

I thought, possibly stupidly, that I wouldn't feel this way for at least three weeks. I thought I'd have a longer break from this crap. I know I'm not the only one who has these feelings, these symptoms, this belief (albeit transient) about oneself of uselessness. And then I realise that it is nearly three weeks since Mirena left.

I am not drinking more water.
I have not started yoga, again. Still. Again.
I have not managed to rise from sleepiness at a "decent" time.
I have, though, got the amassed-over-several-months ironing peak to a reasonable height. Almost amusingly, I have done so much of it over the weekend that my right shoulder is now suffering rather a lot. It really hurts. Ow. It was a brilliant plan, to iron as much as I could BUT I forgot how many clothes I have. I have actually run out of space for my clothes. Only a few pairs of jeans and trousers but so. many. tops. I love clothes. I just do.


And, just when I thought I couldn't feel even slightly better today, on Twitter a favourite tweeter - and dish - mentioned something about songs, I mentioned Brian Wilson in return and now I have the GLORY and LOVE and UNSPEAKABLE BEAUTY of Pet Sounds playing, making me smile and shiver with delight. Very few bands/musicians can do this to me: doves are the other one of which I immediately think. I LOVE MUSIC. And I love my cat...s...