To be honest it's been a hard week. I've felt like what can only be termed as 'an ordinary person'; a dull automaton who goes to work, gets through a mundane day, blindly gets the tube home, eats very hot soup and then forgoing any conversation, passes out asleep.
Or as I prefer to see it, a vapoury Victorian lady. Far more romantic. With nicer underwear.
There has been no marathon style running and certainly no effervescing which is rather scary for all around me. There is only one thing worse than an excitable Clare and that is a pale, silent Clare who doesn't really care what day it is or what is going on.
Saying that, I managed the opera twice (same one and a blog post to follow) and a choir rehearsal, sadly for which I wasn't really there. The diet is still going strong with lots of healthy soup, oatcakes and scrambled eggs. I am still marvelling at how little bread and butter we appear to be getting through - a good thing right?
This level of tired listlessness is interfering with a need to write which isn't really happening right now; I am currently in the middle of a play, three books, anticipating a few exhibitions and a couple of concerts. Inspiration will surely follow.
Leaving me hopelessly breathless and a need to have my stay laces cut - for all the right reasons.