Monday, cloudy Monday, and the temperature has fallen through the floor. The first day of being promoted to full cheffery. That's right, Jen's passing on the mantle of head chef to me, as she'll start working evenings from today. Cripes! Eee gad! Other traditional signs of shock and surprise that I can't think of right now! I have to learn to cook! For years I have subsisted on preparation, but now I have to actually make stuff from base ingredients. Not that I'm particularly sexist about this, forcing Jen for all this time to be the one who made meals, it's just that she's a lot better at these things than I am. She's a natural. I'm not. So we came to an agreement that I would do the easy bits, she would do all the stuff that required some level of intuition and technical ability. Now that's all gone belly up with the job thing happening. Burns unit here we come...

The more I think about it, the more I come to the realisation that I simply don't like blogs that make any kind of statement. Mine included...

It's all out of shape, and I don't understand why. The music was right this morning, but that has to have been a fluke, I think. Everything else feels odd and wrong, and not right. I feel as though the bottom has fallen out of things, especially my stomach, but I don't know why. I need kind words from one who isn't a stranger at all, and I sit waiting for them to come, spiralling downwards into introspective hell. Maybe I should have another blog, one where my thoughts are tangential, and it doesn't really matter what they say as long as it sounds cool.
And as I write, as though telepathy had forced her hand, the kind words come. I am happy, I am resolved. I am in serious need of a decent meal, because it's been more than 12 hours since I ate most of a huge plate of food. I need to learn to eat, lots. I wouldn't want to say I was clinically underweight, but, well, I am.
I need artwork, too, the kind that is permanent and means something. It's a matter of getting it done, but I haven't. I need to ring people, but I can't. Maybe next week. Like everything else in my life.

So I went to Australia and became Uncle Tom, climbed the Harbour Bridge, watched it get blown up at midnight on NYE (the only TLA I really find useful), and found a baseball cap I can live with at the zoo. It's mostly plastic. Jen was there too, lucky me, because she's the sheild I put between the world and me. I missed Christmas with my family, they missed Christmas with me, and we won't be doing that again in a hurry. Well, not for at least another 23 months. I shall gain new glasses soon, and since the insurance company were kind enough to honour my claim, I'll also gain all the camera equipment back that was stolen. I shall honour you all with a new picture. Though maybe not of the glasses, they aren't that interesting. The cat came back, though I think a little miffed, as she immediately punished me by going AWOL for a few days, scaring the wotsit out of me, if I'm brutally honest. She's happy again now, though. I think. The fish were in their own little private world of golfishiness, behind a screen of algae so thick I thought someone had painted the tank. They hadn't. The fish can see again now. Wrinkly fingers. Have dinosaurs, too. 48 of them, 24 individual designs, each repeated. The top of my monitor is like Jurassic Park or something. Not strictly to scale, or in keeping with the actual periods, but who cares? So close to that tattoo, that one I've been thinking about for ages. The one that really, genuinely, honestly means something important to me. Need to do some work, some designing. But first I have to write weird things on thin strips of card. Take care of yourselves, and each other.