Duck Date

So called because I really, really like the word ‘duck’.

Ah, fair readers, an update.

I am still not enjoying calligraphy: it exhausts me. But term is soon ending. My teacher is excellent, my class mates are jolly, it’s just me, being shit.

We have designed and ordered the wardrobes for the small bedroom. We have quotes for the floor of said room. Dad has to arrange to get it plastered before anything else can happen. He has not done this, but has nagged me constantly about all the things I have to do.

We have had a heatwave here in the UK. After 5 days of sweating like a biatch, and eventually stinking like a dunghill, the heat has lessened and I am left very, very sore. My joints hurt and I am a column of stiffness from the top of my head down. I am seizure-y. I am very, very stressed.

My Dad is nagging me about preparations for our holiday. Every day he mentions something I’m meant to be doing. He has driven me to hide in my bed. He never, ever remembers/ learns that stressing me out, nagging at me, makes me ill. It makes me spiral rapidly into a depressive hole. During the heat I was unable to do anything – my body just doesn’t function at high temps – and it is not my fault. But rather than acknowledge this, the man who spent those hot days sitting in a darkened room in his pants with a fan blowing cold air onto him, just treats my actions as if I choose not to do things. Yeah, I choose not to go out and see my friend’s art show, I choose to have joints that don’t work… fucking asshole.

I planted seeds about a month ago in our raised bed and they are doing very well. I fear I will miss their flowering by being absent. I will record their bounty for you all, because heck, I grew something. All the bought flowers and plants have perished – I should be miffed but I don’t really care. Shit happens, and if shit ain’t happening, you’re dead.

Time to listen to ‘I Claudius’ on BBC Radio. And practice Italic letters. Urgh.

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