Warnings for: self pity, hacking cough, the smell of onions, strong likelihood of swearing.
I spotted the happy looking little chap with the bow tie, and arresting blue eyes, over the weekend, at a writing day with some writerly friends. We, and our laptops, were at Doncopolitan HQ, here in Donny town. It’s an old Co-op building which those nice chaps and girl bosses at Doncopolitan magazine share with several small businesses.
I highly recommend Donco HQ to anyone in the area who is looking for space to have a similar event, including a band looking for a place to practice. There’s plenty of space to write, chat, and relax, plus a kitchen in which to prepare your cuppa, or lunch. Plus, we got to use their mugs:
For those who don’t already know, Doncopolitan Magazine is a free ‘zine which carries articles about everything from art, to pubs, to gigs, and social issues, for and about the town of Doncaster. It’s been going for at least two years now, and as well as writing a few pieces, I’ve been reading it from the start.
I’m sitting here, writing this blog, whilst eating the stinkiest food possible – spring onions, regular onions, & garlic; all that’s missing is curry – and feeling slightly guilty about calling in sick earlier today. The Beloved assures me it’s not the first time since working in mental health that I’ve rung in sick due to a physical problem, rather than a mental one. Feels like it, though.
Damn that Protestant work ethic of mine. Even though I know that night shifts & a bad case of the lurgy do not mix, not if I want to do a proper job that is, I still feel bad about not reporting to work. I had to cancel a CBT appointment, too, not something I’m thrilled about, either. I’m sure it’s possible for me to reflect my conversion of 20 + years ago, and develop a Pagan work ethic, but how would it differ, beyond taking home as much recycling, and compost, as possible? (1)
Suggestions on a postcard – or, better yet, the comments section below – please.
Adding to my guilt, for no good or useful reason whatsoever, is that I had a really good, productive time at yesterday’s writing day. I wrote most of Chapter 4 of my work in progress (WIP), and made decent headway into Chap 5, which also represents the 2nd of 9 intended sections. I ran out of steam around four-ish, and gratefully accepted a friend’s offer of a lift home, as the lurgy had started to really go for the (sore) throat.
We interrupt this blog for two definitions of lurgy:
- My, non-native speaking, description: “A horrid something which is more than a cold, less than the flu, and involves some, or – if you’re really up shite creek, looking mournfully for that fuckin’, missing paddle – all of the following: lethargy, aches and pains, snot, sore throat, hacking cough, sneezing, and – if you’ve well and truly been stuffed by life, and germs – sick.”
- The dictionary definition of lurgy: “noun (facetious) any undetermined illness”.
Huh. Get you, dictionary. I think my definition is a lot more interesting than yours. Not that it matters: if you’ve got the lurgy, you still feel pants.
(1) Something I’ve been doing for awhile now.