Clarity

Thinking about it, I need to add a little clarity to the miserable post I've just put up. I know it was miserable. I'm kind of wallowing in it for the night. What can I say? Sometimes you just need to curl up on the couch with a vat of chocolate ice cream (or in this case a jar of Nutella). I think a few explanations are also in order.

First up, I am not moving back to the UK. I am not thinking of moving back to the UK. Not in any serious fashion at any rate. I'm back here in Australia, and I'm generally happy enough being here. There are many advantages to it.

So now that's out of the way, I should probably explain a few things. There may be someone reading this who has read my blog for a while, so they will remember that I had what I can only call a dark period for a while there. The bit where a friend who reads this observed that I sounded like I wanted to slit my wrists. Another friend became very concerned for me and attempted a kind of intervention. I'm not in that place. A large part of my completely wet blanket mood comes from two things; I haven't been getting much sleep lately, for one reason or another (mostly stress related, actually; did I mention that thesis deadline in the last paragraph or so?) and on top of that, I've started cutting back on my sugar and caffeine intake, attempting to get it to ordinary levels, which was one of the contributing factors last time I slid into the blackest of black holes. It's Spring, too, which in Melbourne means pollen clogging the nose, and, in my particular case, the type of headaches that can make you forget to breath, let alone to anything else. Add to that an epic collection of stupid people to deal with at work today (clue: if I'm asking you if you've sent me the latest version of the drawings, because I can't see the difference between this lot and the last lot, you're not getting your plans approved. Just a hint), and you have a vat of misery sitting waiting for me. And there was no Hellcats on TV tonight to jolly me out of it (Pretty cast? Check. Cheerleaders doing the physically impossible? Check. Implausible story lines? Check. poorly acted vehicle for a "triple threat" a la Lindsey Lohan/ Olsen twins movies? Check. God I love that show). And I'm having both a fat day and, given the sudden warmer weather and my need to have actual work clothes, wardrobe shortage issues. I'm not without reasons for being down in the dumps. I've decided to retreat into gloom and doom for the night. I live along, I have that choice and nobody is here to complain if I decide to listen to the Waifs sing about being in London Still on repeat. Or if I chose to blog about it. So sue me, because that's the only way anybody outside this room is going to have any impact on this mood, and by then I'll have moved on.

Oh good. Looks like I've made the transition into nasty piece of work. Tomorrow I shallbe all smiles, even if they're sarcastic, with service returned to normal. No need to confiscate pointy things just yet.

Addendum

A horrifying thought has occurred to me. When we were leaving the pub and I was asked which way I was going, I told the one who brought the pretty that I was going whichever way I'd have company, figuring that everyone was headed to the same place. Except it turned out they weren't. "He's going to Vauxhall, that would be quicker for you, wouldn't it?" came the response from the Bringer.

What if, instead of the helpful getting-me-home-quicker response it seemed to be at the time, it was actually a response to a "get-me-away-from-the-crazy-woman" look from Pretty over my head, that I just didn't notice at the time as I rifled through my vast but strangely empty brain for an excuse to head to the Northern line? What if the look that I thought was "nice to meet you" as we waved goodbye to everyone was, in actual fact, "thank god she's gone with him?"

And now we know it's a serious crush. Because the insecurity has kicked at full force in record time. Dammit. Insanity and crushes, who knew they went together so well? Oh yeah, that's right. Everyone knows. That's where the romantic comedy was born.

Sprung

It has long been accepted that the seasons influence moods, sanity, general well being. Generally, summer makes us happy and winter makes us miserable. There's a reason that Scandinavian countries have high suicide rates and Russia has a history of producing long and depressing literature. But today brought out a new aspect of seasonal affected disorder, something I'd witnessed before but never really traced to something specific. Until this morning, that is.

I was, as usual for anything happening before lunchtime, running late for work this morning. I was fairly motoring along as I walked to the tube, but, as I powered up the hill, my shortness of 0f breath meaning I had my own personal cloud surrounding my head thanks to the cold, I saw something that added an extra bounce to the hurried semi-trot my pencil skirt was forcing me into. About halfway up the hill, in the garden of a big Georgian white house straight out of a fairytale, a magnolia tree has gone mad. Just so we're clear here, winter is very much still with us. Last week, there was snow and ice that only disappeared with what seemed at the time for anyone caught in it to be torrential rain. But since the snowfall of last Wednesday (which brought about an official apology from the weather forecasters, in a first ever admission of all-round crapness that wasn't nearly comprehensive enough), the weather has felt decidedly mild. Gone is the run of sub-zero temperatures. In it's place, a steady flow of comparatively mild 6's, with occasional sunshine breaking up the miserable rain and fog. The mildness of last Sunday in particular has had an effect on the poor magnolia. It's been deluded into thinking that spring is on it's way and has begun to sprout buds.

This tree has led me astray before, so I'm trying not to get carried away here. I remember last year, noticing that there were actual leaves on the tree just days before the heaviest snowfalls to hit London in almost twenty years. It is surely the most optimistic of trees, running far ahead of its neighbours in it's rush for winter to be behind it. But I couldn't help but smile a little at the thought that, sometime in the not too distant future, spring will come. And with it will end the harshest, coldest and last of my northern hemisphere winters. I can hardly wait.

But neither, it seemed, could a couple of other people out and about today. Because, in the space of about ten minutes this afternoon, I looked from my window at work to see two more people who have clearly emerged from the depths of winter without their sanity. The first was a woman, middle aged and seemingly ordinary until you noticed that her lower half was covered by a skirt. And nothing more. She was clearly not wearing stockings. Nor was she wearing boots - footwear of choice for the sane pretty much every day so far this year - or even closed in shoes. She had summery sandals on her feet instead. And they weren't even blue.

Closely following her, a man proved that weather-induced insanity is not gender specific. Sure, Britain, and England in particular, is known for the first hint of sun bringing out the sunbathers in the parks; topless men and bikini clad women risk frostbite annually on days when I'm still debating the need for my winter woollies. But this guy? The first of the year to be exposing skin whilst sober, surely. He was wearing shorts and thongs or, for those non-Aussies who are slightly disturbed by the thought of a man walking down the street in a thong, flip-flops. He wasn't out for a run. He wasn't just popping to the shops. He was headed somewhere specific, I don't know where. But I didn't see him come back, so I'm guessing the men in the white coats caught up with him eventually and took him somewhere warm. If it's toasty enough, it's almost tempting to copy him, to be honest. But no, I'm holding out for the weekend. Apparently, it's going to reach a whole 8 degrees. Heatwave conditions. I'm not sure how I'll cope...