January 27, 2008

I don’t like to whinge. Actually, fuck it, I do like to whinge. Whinging is a healthy and sterling activity which should be encouraged in all circumstances and at regular intervals. Such as this. I’m feeling icky. I’ve had this cough for over a week. It’s not making my voice sound sexy and gravelly it’s making me sound like a phajama wearing boy with a hoop in his chest. I could be in Peter Pan emerging from the gloom of a darkened room, rubbing my eyes and holding a small bear. Don’t ask me to explain myself. This is how I feel and now I also have my period, which is like a dull weight throbbing in my middle and trying to kill me with every kick and I’m not even pregnant. For the last 3 days I have been crying at things – that even as I’ve been doing so – I’ve been seeing as entirely ludicrous to be emotionally demonstrating over. I have cried at: adverts for washing powder, numerous sections of a BBC period drama, the sight of my boyfriend clearing out the kitchen cupboards, my tax returns. Outside it is January. It is cold and dark and wet and in act almost symbolic of everything I’m talking about here, this morning we murdered the Christmas Tree. In a scene starkiling reminisent of a gangland clean up, we wrapped its brittle body in rolled up bin liners, pushed another over its head for good measure and threw it in the skip. My boyfriend wore thick, black gloves as he did this. He had wanted to first cut off it’s limbs but we didn’t have the clippers, so instead he snapped off it’s tiny arms wherever they’d give. When it was done the carpet was covered with sap green needles which we’ll probably both be stabbing ourselves with till next December. Because we are bad people. We live in the city and we do not have a shovel and we did not take our hopeful little tree into the countryside, we did not dig it a hole and gently pat soil over its innocent roots. We killed it. I am half of a Christmas Tree murdering duo and I have a cough and a period and no children and a bike with a back wheel that a car at some point last week most probably ran over. And it’s going to cost me 50 pounds to get it fixed.

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