It was hard to wake up this morning but I managed it, though not at 7.30 when my alarm went off. My intentions were good but I hadn't got to sleep till after 2am.
It's a glorious morning, bright sunshine and no noticeable wind, and I'm hankering to get out on my bike for a good ride. There are things need doing at home but it seems too good an opportunity to miss.
My mood was buoyant until I received an email from work asking how I'm doing, when it plummeted like half a digestive into a mug of coffee. I replied that I'm fine until I think about work, but I doubt they'll get the point. How blatant do I have to be? Ask them to sack me?
They're trying to handle the situation sensitively, but a bull in a china shop would have more grace and finesse.
I started writing last night. It was quite easy, but where I started (The Writers Group) only served to remind me that I've encountered hostility and confrontation just about everywhere since I moved to this God forsaken place; at home with the neighbours (on both sides) - at work, at the writers' group, on public transport, at the pub. I therefore conclude that it has to be me.
Heard from Dave that my friend Patryck died and was buried a week or so ago. Nice of the folks at the pub to let me know. Ah well.
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