When I came home last
night I put the telly on. And fell asleep in front of it several
times. I went to bed, and after a couple of hours sleep I lay awake
dozing fitfully. I'm getting really fed up with this. I can't help
myself but sleep when I have better things to do, and when I should
be sleeping, I can't. I've been to the doctor who was rather
unhelpful. Enough is enough - I shall do some research on the
Internet to see if I can't find a cure.
I got up this morning
with all sorts of things planned. Only to find that on day
twenty-five of an official drought we still have torrential rain. In
fact with a month's worth of rain having fallen today, this has been
the wettest day of the year (so far).
I started off with an
appointment with the counsellor. Since things went west for me last
year it was suggested that I had time with a counsellor. To be honest
I'm not entirely sure what I'm expected to achieve in these sessions.
There is no point whinging about what might have been; I felt I was
coming to terms with my reduced circumstances until this counsellor
started depressing me. Today was my third appointment and it started
off with her asking me how I was. I told her. I quite enjoy my life
even though things could be better. The problem I have is that I
don't like my work. Or, to be fair, it's not that I don't like it but
it doesn't challenge me. I could do so much more. (Is this the
reason why I blog, paint, write, organise social events...) The
fact that I am finding it difficult to change jobs probably isn't
helping either.
The counsellor lady
seemed pleased that I had summarised my problem so succinctly, and
seemed surprised that I had effectively summarised in five minutes
what she had been planning to string out for an hour. We mutually
decided to stop at that point, and I've agreed to get back in touch
with her if I need any more counselling. I may go back, but I doubt
it. To be honest I'm a practical sort of bloke, and counselling was a
bit too airy-fairy for my liking.
I then popped next door
to the framing shop and dropped off a couple of paintings. The chap
in the shop said he'd try to flog them for me. Here's hoping. I then
went home where I had a phone call. An employment agency had a
possible job for me and asked me to send them my latest C.V. I wonder
if anything will come of this job? I'd like to think so.
Mid-day, and with a break
in the rain I went out and delivered some catalogues to an
unsuspecting public. One of the punters told me that the Betterware
people had been round only the other day. Oh well - such is life. It
would be good to be able to co-ordinate with others who do this sort
of thing, but I suppose that would go against the whole idea of free
enterprise.
Home again, and talking
of free enterprise the door bell rang. A young lad wanted to give me
a brochure from his company, and could he make an appointment for a
no-obligation quote for insulating the double glazing? I rather
thought that the whole idea of double glazing was that it was
insulation itself, but I agreed they could come back in a couple of
days. And fifteen minutes later they phoned back to confirm the
appointment and to make sure that both me and my beloved would be
home. I asked why they needed both of us to receive a quote and I
eventually wheedled the truth: they wanted us both home to sign up to
their quote there and then.
They were quite rude when
they realised that I'd rumbled them.
And on an otherwise dull
afternoon I spent some time working on a small part of my ongoing
novel. There is a section in which the heroine / victim / culprit / old
trout (depending on your perspective) has a bit of a black mood. And
thinking of her black mood rather upset my own. I must watch out for
that in future. But having realised the cause of my depression I
wrote a rather uplifting bit about two people, one based on me, and
one based on many people I've met. That cheered me up. It's very odd
how writing can affect my mood. And not wanting to warp my fragile
little mind any more I then stopped writing and did some editing.
So far this novel is over
ten thousand words long and is (sort of) following the plan I
devised. I still have eight major scenes to write, and countless
minor bits to add in between the major plot elements. I need to add
quite a few more minor characters, and I'm not entirely happy with
the names of the characters I have. Naming characters in my novel is
rather akin to naming children: no matter what name you come up with
you can usually find you know someone you don't like who has that
name. I'm not naming my characters after people I don't like.
And then to arky-ologee
club. I'd been looking forward to tonight's talk. The speaker in the
past had given wonderful talks on the private lives of Nelson,
William IV and the children of George IV. Tonight's talk on Georgian
England promised to be enthralling. And it was. But the evening was
also rather worrying. All through the talk the speaker was visibly
shaking. She dropped her spectacles twice. I was expecting her to
either have a fit, collapse or drop dead at any moment. Fortunately
she lasted the evening, but I must admit I'm waiting for the message
from arky-ologee HQ to tell us that Ada has pegged out...
