Glimpsesofcolour

Yesterday I found it extremely hard to get out of bed. But I did. Then I found it just as hard to make myself walk to the gym and had a swim. But I did. And finallly it was pretty hard to make myself go out and meet a friend. But I did. So that’s three very hard things I did yesterday.
Today I only did one hard thing, which was getting out of bed. Then later I went back. Some days are like that.

In spite of not having woken up till 10.45 am (well, I was awake at 8.00 but failed to get up, and fell asleep again), I have spent a chunk of today tweaking the book outline I wrote the other week, and sent it to my publisher. This feels exciting! Of course in a recession she may well say, ‘Sorry, you aren’t selling well enough for us to publish another book by you’, but I will never know without trying. And if they say no to it, I can always try another publisher or try to get an agent. I’m feeling like a real writer again!

You’d think that someone called Weider, who wanted to open an exercise equipment shop, would think twice before calling it by their name. Somehow ‘Weider Fitness and Health’ doesn’t quite have the right ring…

Searching through my stats, in particular the search terms, which turned out to include ‘rude places’, I am reminded that yesterday after leading worship I sat down next to a church friend and during a conversation on the swiftness of time, I quoted ‘my days fly faster than a weaver’s shuttle’. Which would have been fine except that after the word ’shuttle’ I paused for a moment and then found my lips and voice forming the word ‘cock’. All on its own. Fortunately the friend was the sort to which one can say such things, even in church…

Yet again I overslept and left too little time to go swimming in between breakfast and lunch. However, I made it to the carers’ relaxation day in time for lunch (which, having had breakfast at 10.00, I didn’t really need) , followed by ‘healing’, from a lady who laid hands on my head for a long time and claimed she was giving me extra energy. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was quite pleasant anyway. I then had a face massage which was fine except when she slapped me on the chin rather hard and repeatedly. Apparently it helps with lymph drainage.

Was so relaxed after all this (it’s good when it stops) that I felt like going straight home, but I managed to get to the gym, have my swim and jacuzzi time, and get home minutes before my son. I am Superwoman!

Tomorrow is a regional conference of the National Autistic Society at which I’ve booked for a workshop which I’m sure seemed very relevant at the time, but the subject of which I’ve now entirely forgotten. Have to be at Baker Street at 9.30 which is a time of day I didn’t think existed on Saturdays.

Have just noticed that the word ‘time’ appears at least five times (six!) in this post – is my subconscious telling me something? Must be a side effect of being mistaken for a pensioner the other day.

…is that you can sing ‘On top of spaghetti All covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball’ etc, to the tune of Dire Straits’ ‘Brothers in Arms’. Betcha didn’t know that.

The last four or five days have been uniformly grey, not only in the weather but in my mind. This morning I didn’t get up till 10.45 and consequently didn’t start my work till nearly 12.00. However (which is better than yesterday) I managed to get down to planning the service for Sunday, in spite of the fact that I didn’t have the ‘worship bag’ which has sample hymnbooks and all our resource materials in it. I got a lot further than I expected, because I had resources for Poverty Action Sunday and Homelessness Sunday, which we are combining this week.

By the time I finished that, I was feeling better than I had since nearly a week ago. Amazing how therapeutic creative work can be. Of course uncreative work, such as doing the washing up, can be therapeutic too, but it’s harder to get down to because one has to keep repeating it every day. When I am most down, however, I can’t summon the energy to do any kind of work. I just have to wait until the clouds begin to pass over. Which makes me feel pretty helpless.

PS The title for this post is of course ironic…

The other day as I wandered along the Broadway (that leadeth to distraction), I was stopped by a ‘charity mugger’ or chugger, asking me to support the Mental Health Foundation. His exact first words to me were ‘Are you a pensioner?’. When I somewhat huffily explained that I am not, and people usually tell me I look younger than my age, he replied ‘It must be your hat’. What?! My sparkly red baker boy hat, is a pensioner’s hat? I am still recovering. This was definitely not a good day. And I am afraid I have not signed up to donate to the Mental Health Foundation. Their representative did not do my mental health any good at all.