Valley of the Trolley Dollies

What a strange week has just passed.

It had so much perfection in it: Starting on the Saturday with a room full of boys dressed as girls singing karaoke and having almost the most fun it’s possible for gay men to have whilst wearing dresses.

That night, the clocks went back, and we gained brighter mornings and darker nights.

Sunday was a day of sleeping and recuperating.

And the week started with me feeling the sponge going. How do I describe the sponge? I get depressed soemtimes. Oh, I won’t be dramatic about it: There are people out there who get depressed. i’m talking paralysed, hospitalised, institutionalised. I’m terrified of that, but I never get that bad. Still, it gets bad.

I used to view it as being something that descended on me, something that crept up on me. Then I realised those were the wrong metaphors. Those suggested something outside of me that got a hold of me. The fact is, sometimes, there’s a sponge of black bitter sadness, for want of a better word. Most of the time, the sponge acts like those linings in pampers (or those other sanitary products so often advertised with blue liquid): It soaks up the sadness, and let’s none of it back out, so that I’m emotionally nice and dry and warm and confident.

Then, sometimes, it goes wrong, and all the sadness ooozes out of the sponge, back into me, and I get a day - or week - of sheer grim negativity.

D reckons when things are going too well for me, I like to try to muck it up by finding fault; and if I can’t find fault, I get depressed anyways, and do things like take too much booze and make myself a little ill for a day or two. And he may have a point

Monday and Tuesday were hellish at work. The usual: Understaffed, too much to do, ‘Oh, and,’ (says my boss at 9am NY time Tuesday), ‘If you’d like to put any of your staff forward for promotion this year, you have until Thursday Morning 9am to get the forms filled in.’ Remember; It’s a bank. Which means processes, i-dotting and t-crossing that just adds so much extra work to a process that’s important enough already.

Wednesday i snapped at 5:30, told my boss to tell his boss, who was making a typical request (i.e. simultaneously Obtuse and petty; it’s a gift), to go fuck himself. Took myself off to the pub. drank waaay too much, and got home late.

Thursday, i still felt dark and fed up, but at least the weekend was in sight. And I got all the forms off in perfect time. And it look slike at least 3 out of my 4 appointees will get their promotions.
Friday was drinks, a limo to a beautiful venue and a fabulous dinner and drinks with the gentlemen of the BTS. It was, in short, superb - perfect food, great wines, a table of great humour and companionship. A brilliant, brilliant night.

The salmon and scallops - sweet and velvety and beautifully fresh. Every mouthful tasting of exactly what it said on the menu. The smoked eel with roasted rhubarb - second time this month that I’ve had smoked eel - is becoming a favourite of mine. And the lemon panna cotta was light, fresh and a perfect gentle finish to a wonderful meal.

The port, unfortunately, finished me off. Not so much a small schooner, more a large battleship. But, as with everything on the night, its fault (if there was one) was one of generosity rather than anything else.

Saturday was spent drifting along on a lovely warm tide of post-luxury mellowness. Napping, doing bits of household chores, whilst catching myself humming piano arrangements of the greatest hits of the MOR 80’s.

Saturday night was spent , going ooh and aaah at Fireworks in a friends backgarden. Needless to say, D purchased the sort that are usually set off over vast tracts of open land, so a few of the neighbours had a teeny tiny fire or two to contend with, my jacket has a big scorch mark down the front, and my crystal goblet of excellent Chilean Sauvignon exploded when a stray spark of something hot and fizzing shot from the sky straight into it. Happy days.

Today I have a cold (a real cold - not the Whitney Houston ’sniffles’ type of cold) which will be a combination of a long cold walk from Village to Victoria on Friday, and a booze fuelled night under sparkly explosions.

And I’m due to go to the theatre (”Spamalot”). Which, if it makes me laugh, will result in a hacking spewing cough, and, quite possibly, a spell in an iron lung.

Still, a shitload more positive than last Monday - mainly thanks to the glow you get from knowing that one has great friends and lovely people in one’s life. And a husband who loves me so much…. Oh, for once I can’t put it into words. I love him, he loves me, yaddayadda yadda. It soudns so trite, but it’s true - without the friends, the loved ones - without D - I’d be, if not dead, a very damp and sad little boy.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 7th, 2006 at 12:24 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.