Glum

I'm feeling glum. My sleep patterns are all up the wop and I was walking the estate at 6.30 this morning, in jamas and ugg boots. Tres bon for gardening in pajamas (that's French for bloody choice, mate) saying good morning to the world while attempting to get my legs to work in sequence and my back to unseize. I do it most mornings, with a coffee in one hand and a ciggie in the other and with a dog and at least 2 cats in attendance, cussing each other quietly whilst dobbing each other in for the new footprints in the dirt.

Cats are lying bastards. In fact, Thomas is lying on my bed as I type, keeping my wheat sacks warm and demanding to know when I am coming to bed because it's very late and I've had a very busy day.

And that's why I'm glum - because I just want a week of uninterrupted peace and quiet to sleep to my hearts content and not have any busy days. That and next weeks 20 odd million PowerBall Jackpot.

That jackpot could buy me the solution to the problem.

I'm sore; I'm tired; I'm sick of spending my time fulfilling everyone else's needs and telling myself doing so fulfills mine; I'm sick of taking pills; I'm a wee bit sick of MS as well. MonSter Birthday Blues, I suspect. We have a birthday in 2 weeks.

Each day holds a lesson or two that even someone as thick as me can't miss - today's lesson is accept spontaneity. Oh, and accept my limits and limitations.

I can hear a Tui...