Irascible? Moi?

Of course, during the previously-discussed hormonal fluctuations, what one gains in terms of hunger (I am no longer trying to Eat All Of The Things), one loses to the Weepies and naked aggression.

Kill All Of The Things.

(Except for Jose Mujica, because he sounds quite cool.)

And then cry about it, while attempting to clean the sheets, and the mattress, because your body is a total vindictive bastard.


…will simply have to be my aspiration for next year. It ain’t happenin’. I am up to my wrinkled eyes in To Do lists and Mount Laundry. Perhaps I should post the To Do lists? They are pleasingly cryptic, even to me, but frequently illegible, despite the many years of extra handwriting practice I put in at primary school. Harry, who at the grand old age of 5 is using a laptop in class and home for his work, does not realise how… umm… lucky…? he is to be suffering his Specific Learning Difficulties in 2012, rather than 1980. Handwriting is so last century. 

Anyhoo, I have started spotting. Of course I have. There is a narrative inevitability to these things. On the plus side, the falling progesterone has, overnight, stopped me trying to Eat All Of The Things. My weight loss has stalled entirely (I can’t stop using flight-failure imagery. I have unintentionally worked ‘shot down in flames’, ‘losing altitude fast’ and ‘going down like the Hindenburg’ into conversations today.) and hormonal fluctuations profoundly affect my appetite. I am the living inverse of the magic porridge pot when so afflicted. 

I am unsure if I have mentioned my acknowledged status as a rain goddess before; I imagine I must. My travelling companions are trepidatious, with good reason. Some crossed fingers for sun over the far eastern Med next week would be kind.

I shall post photos, probably of a rain gauge. 

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