Gone upstairs and moved from room to room, staring out of each window in turn for five minutes or so (try staring out of a window for five minutes � that�s a LONNNNNGG time of staring), in order to prove to myself once and for all which room affords the best view of the road, and therefore the earliest sighting of the truck which was coming to pick up my M@zda.
If my house was a mile from the road, or there was some doubt whether the truck driver would be able to find the house, then Im sure this �early warning system� preparation would have had some merit. However, I live on a suburban cul-de-sac of only 14 houses and the average distance from house to kerb is probably no more than about 40ft. Its also pretty quiet, what with it being a cul-de-sac and all, so the arrival of a truck big enough to transport a car was always going to be relatively audible.
There are also a fair amount of trees outside my house, so I cant see the road particularly well from ANY of the windows.
Once I�d squeezed pretty much all the fun out of that activity, I stood on the landing for quite a while, reading a dog-eared script of Terence Rattigan�s �French Without Tears�.
That would have been a kind of OK activity (sitting down might have been better but there is nowhere to sit on the landing and I had already been into all the upstairs rooms for the purposes of staring, so I had to stand) had I not just been reading my own lines (helpfully highlighted in pink) from when I played the part of Diana back in about 1995.
I appeared to think that if I re-read my own lines, everyone else�s lines would magically appear in my head in between and I would be able to re-enact the whole play without having to read it all. It was a stupid idea as I could barely even remember the plot. In fact, the only thing I could remember with any clarity was the hideously unflattering 1930s bathing costume I�d had to wear for what seemed like a disproportionately large amount of the action. Oh, and that I�d had to kiss the man who later went on to stalk me, with varying degrees of terrifying/irritating/comically bizarre behaviour for ten years or so. My kisses totally had that effect in those days.
On the first night of the play, the child actor playing Lord Heybrook peed his pants backstage before his big entrance and had to do his scene holding a small suitcase infront of himself to hide the tell-tale dark patch on his schoolboy shorts. We pretended not to notice.
The guy with the truck turned up when I wasn�t looking out of ANY of the windows. He was fat and friendly and keen for a chat so we stood outside for a bit while he told me, in minute detail, about his own experiences with how cancer had touched his family. At one point, the story started to get a bit confusing as I�d thought he was talking about his wife (who�d appeared to have been having a terrible time and had been unable to walk for some months, having to be carried about by the truck man and all the while crying �enough to break your heart�) but it wasn�t until he started to describe in more detail how she�d had to have almost all of one of her HIND legs removed and that she doesn�t really chase rabbits or anything any more, that I realised he was talking about his dog.
Because yes, my experience with breast cancer is pretty much identical to the growth on your Rottweiler�s leg, Mr Truck Man. I can see how you would think I would be empathising, there.
Watched Germany v Netherlands in the football last night. Treacle says Dutch winger Arjen Robben �runs like Phoebe out of Friends�. And he does.
I changed the dressing on the new incision (which is the old incision, just cut up again) and assessed the damage. Had a bit of a cry and stared blankly at myself in the mirror for a nice long time. Not writing about that now. L said �When can I see what they�ve done?� and I said �Never�. I think he probably thinks I was joking.
I convinced myself that colouring my hair again would be a good idea, despite the �Hi-Vis Mohair Swimming Hat� experience last time. It wasn�t a good idea, it was a stupid idea, and �Honey� appears to mean exactly that (or at least its nearest approximation) as I now have a head the same colour as golden syrup. As my body looks like a giant flabby grey mis-shapen suet pudding, I guess its only appropriate, huh?
Mater bought L some tickets to see Stewart Francis for his birthday. Im not really all that bothered about Stewart Francis. I like him well enough I guess but not as much as L does. He�s super-stoked about going to see him tonight and Im trying to keep the apathy out of my voice when Im saying �Yes. Im sure it�ll be a great night. We�ll have a lot of fun.�
Im struggling to keep the apathy out of my voice for everything today, actually.
Today can piss right off.