Much to say?
Tuesday, July 18th, 2006 10:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanI am finding it hard to think of anything to write and yet here I am making that the subject of an entry.
What a publicity hound, eh?
I don’t want to write about the weather; I’m fed up with that and I expect you are, too. There’s only so many ways to say that it’s too hot (although the chances of record-breaking July temperatures in London, where it’s currently hotter than Mauritius, is worth noting).
At the same time, I really don’t want to harp on about the tube system. Largely because any muttering I do is linked to the heat, but also because it (or at least the bit I use) has behaved itself impeccably the past couple of days. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.
This all leaves me with precious little to write about and that is frustrating when you fancy yourself to be a bit of a writer (an unmotivated writer to be sure, but a writer nonetheless. I am blaming my lack of worthwhile written productivity on the heat and tube system. A heady blend of irrelevance and hypocrisy, but it suits me).
That said, I am toying with the idea of blowing a couple of days annual leave and heading up to Shropshire to see Dad, though I’m not sure I really want to and if I do it will be as much out of a sense of guilty duty as anything else. The trouble is I am getting horribly mixed messages from home. Mum says I needn’t worry (and then says something like I won’t hold it against you if something happens to him and you miss seeing him, which a) doesn’t sound like Mum at all and b) leaves me wondering how to interpret such a loaded phrase. Barbie (my sister) thinks I should go up, and the elder niece and nephew seem quite sanguine about it all.
I think I shall probably go, but the more I think about it, the less I want to. I can’t work out in my own head if I am being selfish – Dad is unlikely to notice either way in his condition – or not.
The family can’t quite agree on how poorly he is and neither, it seems, can the doctors. One doctor tells Mum that the brain scan shows damage, the other says it’s all clear. And yet Dad is still in the hospital and clearly not firing on all cylinders. Or maybe he is; it’s just that there are fewer cylinders than there once was. I guess the only thing to do is bite the bullet and go and see what he’s like for myself.
What a publicity hound, eh?
I don’t want to write about the weather; I’m fed up with that and I expect you are, too. There’s only so many ways to say that it’s too hot (although the chances of record-breaking July temperatures in London, where it’s currently hotter than Mauritius, is worth noting).
At the same time, I really don’t want to harp on about the tube system. Largely because any muttering I do is linked to the heat, but also because it (or at least the bit I use) has behaved itself impeccably the past couple of days. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.
This all leaves me with precious little to write about and that is frustrating when you fancy yourself to be a bit of a writer (an unmotivated writer to be sure, but a writer nonetheless. I am blaming my lack of worthwhile written productivity on the heat and tube system. A heady blend of irrelevance and hypocrisy, but it suits me).
That said, I am toying with the idea of blowing a couple of days annual leave and heading up to Shropshire to see Dad, though I’m not sure I really want to and if I do it will be as much out of a sense of guilty duty as anything else. The trouble is I am getting horribly mixed messages from home. Mum says I needn’t worry (and then says something like I won’t hold it against you if something happens to him and you miss seeing him, which a) doesn’t sound like Mum at all and b) leaves me wondering how to interpret such a loaded phrase. Barbie (my sister) thinks I should go up, and the elder niece and nephew seem quite sanguine about it all.
I think I shall probably go, but the more I think about it, the less I want to. I can’t work out in my own head if I am being selfish – Dad is unlikely to notice either way in his condition – or not.
The family can’t quite agree on how poorly he is and neither, it seems, can the doctors. One doctor tells Mum that the brain scan shows damage, the other says it’s all clear. And yet Dad is still in the hospital and clearly not firing on all cylinders. Or maybe he is; it’s just that there are fewer cylinders than there once was. I guess the only thing to do is bite the bullet and go and see what he’s like for myself.