Well, I've been rushed off my little pegs.
Roland and Colin's visit went well. They were understanding about Ross's need for rest. However, in retrospect, the trip to Camden Market was probably more than he needed. However, the weather was glorious and I spent most of the time trolling around in shorts. It was almost like being back in Barcelona.
Then into work. It fell apart almost immediately. A catastrophic event on the network over the weekend had taken everything out. That took hours to fix and the repercussions linger on. Then I got a phone call to say that my colleague, Rachel, was off sick. And the upshot of that was that I ended up teaching not only my scheduled e-mail and Internet classes but also her introductory Excel class. I was exhausted.
Wednesday was the worst day. Not only was I bushed but, when I got home, I was greeted by a very mopey Ross. He'd been to the doctor's hoping to get some help to sort his head out and was greeted by a locum. This guy completely reversed everything that Ross's previous doctor had said, told him there was nothing wrong with his blood tests and that if he was feeling bad that was probably all in his mind. He then went on to prescribe something that we later found out to be Prozac by another name.
I'm horrified that doctor's are still dolling these things out like sweeties to people they hardly know. The experience has left us both very low.
Saturday, we saw a very pleasant performance of The Merry Widow, printed off lots of Web information about ME and CFS and bought some clay for Ross to work on at home. That took some lugging home. I was hard pressed with my rude health. It would probably have seen Ross off. The hour changed overnight but my system went into overdrive. I couldn't settle to go to bed and I was up early the following morning.
Sunday was shopping, gardening, washing, ironing, cleaning, tidying. Why do I think that there's something just a little driven about all of this?
We did manage a little R&R watching the Baz Luhrman Romeo and Juliet. I must confess that I was prepared to be sniffy but it is quite, quite excellent. It'll be a contender with Volcano for my film of the year.
This week has been a lot more of the same. I seem to be intent on getting everything sorted at home. Most of the housework's up to date now. A lot of things just hadn't been sorted back after the holiday when we tidied stuff out of harm's way - on Nathan's insistence. And start of term and - I guess - Ross's increasing weariness have just meant that we've never really recovered.
I also don't seem to be communicating with anyone outside of work. I dunno.
Maybe this is me battening down the hatches. I just don't feel confident
until I've got the centre sorted out. Still we've getting more or less there.
The spare bedroom now has floor that you can see rather than being filled
with boxes of detritus.
We're managing to relax by watching I, Claudius. Ross has never seen it and I could watch it again and again. I can't imagine them making the like nowadays. 13 weeks of Dallas on the Tiber. Certainly the recent serialisation of Anthony Powell's Dance to the Music of Time has been a worthy disappointment. Surely someone should have said that the attempt to squeeze 12 novels into 8 hours of television was an impossibility. Perhaps there aren't the same leaps of faith as in previous times. Or maybe the cost of failure is just too high.
The weather's been glorious this week and last, by the way. Clear, blue skies And crisp, cold air. Bracing. And it's been nice to hit half term so the roads aren't clogged with adults and their broods on their way to school as I pick my way to work.
In the outside world, Louise Woodward has been found guilty. Sky News must be clapping their hands with glee at the thought of all the extra coverage they'll be forced to show. No-one seems able to accept that a nice, middle class girl could do wrong. No-one seems able to accept that the parents may have done wrong for that matter. It all seems a terrible muddle and an awful way for the parents to work through their grief.
Friday night; Ross had decided to cry off going to Janacek's From the House of the Dead at the Coliseum. He was tired. I went. Without being as sensational as I know it can be, it was still pretty wonderful and is certainly the best thing I've seen so far this season but, frankly, that's not saying very much.
The Janacek is only about 90 minutes long when played without interval as it was here. So, ENO took an interesting decision to import Mark-Anthony Turnage's Twice Through the Heart which had been premiered at the Aldeburgh Festival earlier in the year. It caused quite a stir in the press at the time. I'd like to be as positive myself; I don't go see much contemporary opera. But its vocal idiom was not to my liking although Susan Bickley's performance was a tour de force.
With Ross's absence, I was not minded to let the ticket go to waste. I asked Jack, who I share an office with at work, to come with me. Frankly, I wish I hadn't. Not only was he dull company but he also kept his wallet in his pocket throughout and has shown no signs of reciprocity whatsoever.
Friday's newspapers also brought news of more financial crises at the Royal Opera. Apparently, they'd not taken into account the fact that, on their travels, the receiving venues would hold onto the box office takings until the end of a season, square the accounts and then hand over the balance. Or, in other words, they are going to make damn sure they get their rightful money. And, in other words, they are not going to bank roll their guests. Consequently, there's a big cash flow problem with cheques bouncing among the ballet staff.
And still, no-one from the management resigns.