H and I have spent the past week going out a lot. To the cinema, mostly. We’ve seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (sweet, sentimental, very nearly a cliché (incidentally, I met someone on Friday who pronounced ‘cliché’, ‘clitch’. The hell?), rescued by a very witty script and the most fabulous cast in fabulous land. Also, if you ever want to picture my Dad in a good mood, picture Ronald Pickup. It was uncanny). We’ve seen The Muppets (sweet as ice-cream, the second greatest gift. Also, so very, very funny I pretty much stopped breathing at several points. Highly recommended). I went to see The Woman in Black by myself, as H can’t stand ghost stories, and I’ll give it a solid 6.5 out of 10 (leaping out at the camera and shrieking is a lazy device and overused, Daniel Radcliffe wasn’t half bad, bless him, not a good film to watch if one is distressed at the idea of ghastly things happening to children. Well, obviously we’re all distressed at the idea of ghastly things happening to children. Obviously. But this film is quite gleefully ghastly to small children. Also, death in childbirth, bereaved parents, and a couple of genuinely trouser-soilingly scary moments. On the other hand, didn’t dream about it, didn’t stay up half the night thinking about it, whereas The Orphanage did me in for days).
We also managed a concert and a couple of meals out.
In the middle of all this rushing about, H’s Grandfather died. We both went to work the next day, and the next day, sorted out leave arrangements for the funeral. And then spent Saturday pole-axed. And Sunday, we went to the cinema again.
I think we’re trying to distract ourselves. Too much thinking sucks.
The funeral is in a couple of days’ time. My place of work actually gave me compassionate leave to go, which astonished me, as he’s not my own grandfather, and all I was expecting was to be allowed a day out of my leave allowance at short notice.
I feel all over the place (can you tell?). Also, my chin is holding an Acne Festival, with some kind of Fringe Festival of blotches going on in the upper lip region. Also, I keep getting sciatica in my right buttock and thigh, and I have a head-ache, and heart-burn, and my period is due on Sunday or Monday, and I’m supposed to be going to another concert with my mother on Sunday, thank you hormones. I know I know. Take the painkillers. Take early, take often.
Oh, and then there’s H. Remember his troublesome tummy? The blood-tests all came back negative for, well, everything they tested for, which is good, so the GP is pretty sure it’s IBS, which is not so good, and H is being told to Eat Oats by every website, book and article in the Northern Hemisphere. H! Eat oats! (H’s response, mournfully, ‘I don’t like porridge…’ Have you never heard of muesli? Your Alpine ancestors are queueing up to laugh at you). Anyway, his tummy is behaving a bit better this week, and any day now I shall have nagged him into keeping a food diary.