(am)
This isn’t a cry for help, I’m screaming at the top of my voice.
(pm)
As soon as I pick up this pen and start writing, I feel self-indulgent. Then the moment is lost forever. I’ve made some giant strides forward today. Proper lunch – ok, maybe not by everyone’s standards, but by sitting down properly and eating manchego and oatcakes (thank-you Martin) at a reasonable hour – and Christmassy chipolatas wrapped in bacon followed by ‘tarte fine aux pommes’ (I think B won the prize) and ice cream – but I’m tired. Tired of this, tired of being tired. Tiring of wearing B down. And tired of having to make an effort. Things shouldn’t be so hard. I want to be able to let go. Without feeling guilty.
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