Cultural relativism

Last night I felt really low, so I went to the cinema to see “Up”. I wanted some fun, and to be entertained. Tonight I have a concert of lush nineteenth century classical music, which will also suit the way I’m feeling just fine. I couldn’t handle anything too heavy just now. Hormones, you know?

I’m a great believer in the idea that there is a place for pretty much everything, culturally speaking. For some of it (horror movies, the more saccharine end of pop music), that place is not part of my life; but I’m pretty eclectic in my tastes. I listen to Stravinsky in the afternoon and The Icicle Works in the evening, and I love them both. I read Rebecca West, and then Anne Zouroudi, and I am blown away by “Rashomon” only to sit hooting with laughter at a Pixar cartoon the following week. Does this make me a relativist or just lacking in properly defined tastes? Do I care?

I don’t, actually. I like my tastes, and that is enough for me.

“Up” was good fun. A bit of a “switch your brain off and enjoy the ride” movie, but not totally mindless. The animation is superb and the plot although daft is entertaining, and the dog characters are gorgeously, hilariously spot-on doggy. The only problem was that getting up to leave at the end I hit my right leg on the metal drink-holder on the next-door seat so hard I thought I had cut it open. I hadn’t, but I now have one of my characteristic violet-and-rhubarb coloured bruises down my calf muscle; it looks as if I was in a kick boxing match, not out for a peaceful night at the flicks.

Girls only read this, I think!...

Normal service has been resumed.

It’s one of those things I don’t think a man will ever quite be able to understand; the intensity of the relief when you see that bit of red spotting... I guess learning that “Oh thank god, she’s not pregnant, panic over” is probably a pretty powerful life moment for some guys, in some situations, and “Oh no, she’s not pregnant, again - what’s wrong with us?” must be the sad thought of some other guys whose lives are in a different situation. But I can’t help thinking it’s another experience altogether for girls. Is that sexist of me, I wonder?

At any rate, I am now once again certain that I am not pregnant – even more certain than I was already, which means very certain indeed! I’ll need to go to the doctor if this happens again, since if running two weeks late shows signs of being a regular (irregular) event it may mean premature menopause (aargh) or something wrong with my ovaries (been there, done that; oh heck, not again)…

Hormones – who’d have them?

Five o'clock approaches...

...and I start to feel more human.

Not fully human, as yet - it'll take a little shift in the hormonal levels to do that - but more like a sane adult who's had a bafflingly rough week, and less like The Scream personified (I can only find it with Homer, sadly, not Lisa).

And all gloomy thoughts aside, I'm quite sure I can fit in a baking session and some writing, and possibly a trip to the Wetland Centre. Don't know if I can rustle up a party tonight, working from scratch, with no guests and no budget, though... But ah, I have a bottle of cheap Sauvignon Blanc in the bottom of the wardrobe, so all is not lost. I will sit in the wardrobe and drink my sorrows dry.

Coming to the end of an odd week...

I'm eating my way through a packet of clotted cream fudge so calorific you could practically run a car off it, trying to beat the "Oh gods, can I cope?" feeling. Thank God It's Friday.

It's been an odd week. The weather has turned autumnal, the visitor numbers at Kew have plunged, the enquiries are getting odder again as if in preparation for winter, a helicopter is circling over Kew Green endlessly (represses urge to yell "F**k off!" out of window) and my period is late. VERY late.

I can't be pregnant. If I were pregnant, the child would have started school by now, if you see what I mean. But this means I have a f**king helicopter going round and round over my head and I am pre-menstrual as bejayzuz and I have to find civil and courteous ways to write back to the people making odd requests and enquiries. >sigh<

As I said, TGIF. With knobs on.

1. What I want to do this weekend:
Go to a party and have a great evening chatting to interesting people, drinking nice wine and eating too much.
Go to the Wetland Centre and see lovely migratory birds, and sketch and paint.
Do lots of writing.
Bake homemade bread rolls and a chocolate cake.

2. What I probably will do this weekend:
Do grocery shopping.
Pay bills.
Do my income tax return.
Hoover.
Tidy up the garden.

But I intend to cram at least one of list 1 into list 2, even if it takes me all weekend to do it. Take care out there!

Colour Therapy?...

or, is red food restorative?

My mother has a theory that it is. If I were living with her at the moment, I would go home and wail pathetically at her, and she would give me beetroot and tomato risotto and a glass of red wine for supper. And she would say "That'll put some blood back into you."

I had beetroot for lunch, thinking of her, and I'm tempted to do the risotto and red wine thing for supper too, although I really shouldn't be drinking mid-week. But - well - what can I say? Holy hormones? - holy cow, yes! Boy I just love (not) being a woman at these times. I'm tired and crotchetty and washed out, and I feel as if something has beaten me about the midriff for twelve hours straight.

Hoping to cycle home without being rained on tonight, after being caught in a spectacular cloudburst yesterday evening thanks to stopping for five minutes to buy ibuprofen at Boots on the Chiswick High Road.