Monday, 19 January 2009

out at sea

Stormy old weather. I sat in the Downs cafe watching redwings pretending they didn't mind the hail that was hammering down and carpeting the grass around them.

I'm working through a bout of self-loathing. I handled the photo shop business badly, and should have just walked away. There are more important things in life to worry about. I can't trust my judgement as to whether the assistant was being snarky or just responding subconsciously; what my friend Suzanne describes as 'information'. The information in question being the way that I am perceived.

Walk on. Learn.

My New Year's reso (I don't do reso's, of course, but this year I am....) is to work assiduously on my voice until I am finally happy with it. Which means no longer being afraid to speak in case it 'outs' me, and not being 'sirred' on the phone.

Meantime, our Home Counties correspondent and mystery shopper (Hi, J!) tells me that Waterstones in Newbury have moved their copy of Becoming Drusilla back from Biography (whither she had relocated it) to the LGBT section. It is now sitting on a shelf next to an anthology of "BDSM Military Fantasies"...

Hmmm. Now wash your hands...

I was talking about Saturday night's storm with Geraldine. She recalled a Ted Hughes poem, which captures the feeling perfectly:

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet...