My plan was, go into work this afternoon, sort out the inevitable mess in my in-tray and email, hand over my ‘oops, sorry, I’ve not been here’ paper-work, sort out my reeeelly quite enormous library fines (a librarian! With library fines! Again!), check in with my tutor, collect my case-study notes, come home, and lie down. And then I could go into work properly on Tuesday and, you know, work.
No one at work has got back to me about this. Grrrrrrrrr. Shall I go in anyway and startle them?
I have a bunch of emails from assorted friends who Do Not Know, one or two of whom are even Long Lost, all wanting to know hey, wassup? Also, do I want to go to the pub? Also, what’s with the radio silence? I really ought to answer these emails. Doing this will suck, whether I go for the sunshine-and-flowers of euphemistic under-carpet-brushery, or for the ‘it sucked this much’, or for the brusque two sentences of necessity. It depends which friend I want knowing what about my emotional state in what context given assumed venue and alcoholic nature of next encounter. It’s like playing chess.
We decided not to go and stay with H’s parents last weekend. We both felt like boiled underpants, and whereas I was perfectly prepared to use my boiled-underpant-status to get out of doing or answering anything at all I couldn’t be arsed with, H is rather less cantankerous by nature, and didn’t think he could bear much social interaction and gentle enquiry. He certainly couldn’t bear watching me leap up and run out of the room at half-hourly intervals and then have anyone turn to him and say ‘Is May alright?’ as the only truthful answer would be ‘No she sodding is not and neither am I.’
So we stayed at home, and E came over for pizza and movies (Beowulf) and we all talked involved nonsense about the best available translation of Beowulf and whether they had the Anglo-Saxon available and which was morally preferable in a translation, verse or prose? That was very nice. I fear I may buy another book.