Safety Lights Are For Dudes

If you've been wondering where I am of late I am sorry. I have been having a really bad phase of depression and generally Not Coping. I'm not saying this to garner sympathy - for one thing, sympathy tends to induce guilt - but just to let you know. I'm just about coping with work, and am dipping in and out of twitter, but don't have the spoons for anything else - such as blogging - at the moment.

I am lucky in that I have great, understanding, friends, who will visit when I need company and bugger off when I need to be alone.

( tl;dr: the details of my Not Copingness )

So yeah... not entirely sure how to end this. So I'll just end it.

Worth watching for the clip montage alone, here is Christopher Lee getting his BAFTA fellowship, long overdue in my view.



Watching it reminds me of watching Peter Cushing on Jim'll Fix It not long before he died. He's so thin and frail. I haven't got the words at the moment to describe how sad that makes me feel. For the last twenty years Christopher Lee's barely aged, and then suddenly... :(

For more eloquent comment, see this post by magister. And have a drink to the sexiest voice in acting - he's still there, but watching that, I don't think he will be for much longer.

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My phone went wiggy last night and I had to do a hard reset. I have therefore lost ALL my contacts. Yes, even matgb. Please, if you can read this and you have my number can you text me, saying who the text is from? And then I can get some of them back, at least.

Number is on my contacts page on DW (f-locked) or my profile page on Faceache.

And now I go to redownload all my apps and resubscribe to all my podcasts...

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My March sponsor is < a href="http://markreckons.blogspot.com/">Mark Reckons, and yes, I've lost his number too.

I like the new logged-in homepage. It's one of the things I am clinging to about today which hasn't been really awful and depressing.

The other thing was being out in the garden with amazing_holly planting sweetpea seeds earlier. Yeah, I know, I'm a bit early for late planting and a bit late for regular planting. But she wanted to do it, and it was fun grubbing about in the compost with her.

I'm trying not to think about anything else that happened today. Work was particularly awful; this is made worse by the fact that I've had a good long stretch of really enjoying it, and today was a big jolt. Also Mat was really stressed (for mostly good reasons) so neither of us were in a fit state to be the support to each other we usually are.

Instead, I'm going to run myself a bath, and sink into it, and think about how cool it was to be planting stuff with Hol, and what a little angel she's been today, even though I have been grumpy as all hell.

I am a very lucky mummy.

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Well poo. I have been getting these out of the library of late, and most of them are really good. And now they are stopping doing them because their license to publish short story Who fiction from the BBC is going to expire. I LIKE short stories. I wish people published more of them.

Anyone know how much 28 x £7.50 is?
Anyone fancy spending it on books for me before it's too late?

* not for the first time, wishes she was rich *

Mister Mat just came upstairs with the cake, and sliced off a delicate sliver. Mildly disappointed at being thus rationed, I enquired I am only to be allowed a little bit of cake? Mister Mat took the delicate sliver of cake over to his desk and left the entire rest of the cake with me.

♥

I am going to London in March, straight after spring conference. I am going to be participating in a bloggers' interview of Vince Cable. Six weeks to go and I am already crapping myself. I had no such feelings about the Nick Clegg interview I was meant to go to at Yorkshire regional conference, mainly because Clegg strikes me (having been in his presence) as a complete onanist, and thus I'm not bothered if I offend the self-important Glorious Leader; Vince, having been in his presence, is utterly, utterly lovely as well as amazing in a political sense, and I will be mortified and want to throw myself off Westminster Bridge if I offend him. Which, of course, I am almost certain to do, and the more worked up about this I get, the more certain it becomes - you steer towards where you're looking and all that.

Short of filling my hipflask with the old Remy and hoping like hell, any suggestions from the peanut gallery on how to deal with debilitating nervousness? I came very very close to saying no to the whole thing on the grounds that I am bound to make a complete arse of myself, but several people have moved heaven and earth to make it possible for me to be there, and it would have been really ungrateful to hide in a corner wibbling uncontrollably like I want to...