Item – H’s place of employment doesn’t finally fold its tents and silently steal away until after the New Year. So until then, H and his colleagues have to Sort Things Out and Finish Projects Properly and Hand Over and Sign Off and, you know, behave like responsible adults.
Item – I keep telling him he should booby-trap every website and database that’s being handed over with random pop-up messages pointing out that the Powers That Be are, variously, berks, trolls, lickspittles, Judases, dissembling cod-pieces, ridiculously bad in bed, morons, despoilers, pigeon-lickers, toad-eaters, urine-scented, and wearing pink frilly nylon suspenders, and pointing out there’s no more faith in them than in a stewed prune. H laughs immoderately at all these suggestions, but says ‘no’. I suppose he wishes to remain employable.
Item – So, yes, we do have a fair while to job-hunt and plan and think and lament and carry on and cuss and get a grip in. I say get a grip, because, given that H will get redundancy pay, and given that I have savings (I checked. I have saved nearly a year’s wages. Go me!), this whole situation is totally a First World Problem.
Item – H is wildly suggesting moving to Yorkshire and buying a yarn shop. He has never run a shop in his life. Yes, OK, so living with me is very much like living in a hallucinatory cross between a second-hand bookshop and the haberdashery department at John Lewis after a reasonably sturdy earthquake, but still. He has in the past also suggested crofting with chickens, crofting with ducks, sponging off my mother, building a house from scratch out of hay-bales and mud, emigrating, and me becoming a bestselling author à la J.K. Rowling, so I am assuming he isn’t serious. Bless the man.
Item – A few days after we got That News, I wrung my hands and asked H if he thought we should, maybe, you know, what with the uncertainty, stop trying to have a child right now. ‘God, no!’ he said. ‘We don’t have time to take a break any more. And anyway,’ he added, smiling seraphically, ‘Even if we did have a kid, we’d be fine.’ So I felt better. Also, sad that even H gets that I’m 36 and my remaining eggs are going stale. But mostly better. I think.
Item – To return to the ever-fascinating subject of meeeee, the first two days back at work this week, I garnered NINE separate remarks, from nine separate people, on my pallid (or ‘peaky'(TM)) complexion. I took my allegedly sugar-white face back home to H, and asked him if I really did look that remarkably ill. He peered at me, and said I looked much the same as ever. I think I must be allergic to my office. Or H is depressingly used to me looking like a boiled tea-towel. Both? Anyway, he insisted on cooking me a steak earlier this evening, as a precaution. We shall see how many people I render snow-blind with the dazzle from my cheekbones over the weekend.
Item – I feel like I ought to be doing something energetic and useful. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel like doing something energetic and useful at all. I just feel like I ought to be.