Another taskless day has thrust itself upon me and demanded my full attention. So! You want to occupy me with a long list of nothings to do! In the beginning I came into this place and reorganised the filing system when my services were not required. But that’s done now. I can’t even tidy the place up a bit as we have pretty decent cleaners in here every evening. The best days in this office are the days when my boss gets really flustered as work trickles in in a steady flow….she mutters “Oh my God!” and “What a day!” every fifteen minutes. And as she packs up her bags at 4pm after a gruelling day with a 10 o’clock start, her 90 minute lunch and her two 30 minute coffee breaks, she declares her need of a glass of wine and a long bath after this. Don’t get me wrong though – I find this genuinely amusing – she is a terrific boss. She spent the first thirty minutes of this morning regaling me with the tales of the ball she went to on Friday night. She just doesn’t do stress. I thought I was the kind of person that couldn’t do stress. In my previous job I have been known to lock the door, put the phone on the hook and have a good cry. But there is no stress here – none whatever (unless you count the person in my office who is a mouth breather. Noisy, phlegmy breathing at all times, which I can even hear through my earphones. It is quite remarkable.) This place is a bit of a dream for a person like myself, who enjoys efficiency and so is not afraid when blurry undemanding deadlines are set for small tasks…ah, it’s the little things in life innit?

A friend of mine, a minister, got “installed” into a church on Friday night. Installed? Who decided to call it that? She is being elected pastor of a flock – not fitted into a corner and hammered in with nails and plywood. It was one of the most boring and joyless events I have ever attended – apart from a heart-warming speech towards the end from one of the church members expressing a really beautiful welcome to her. (I had a little weep then.) The rest of it was irrelevant archaic hymns and prayers by rote – so different to the church I attend, which feels like going home. It’s warm and vibrant and very ordinary, and despite our distinct lack of mystery or grandness I don’t think the sense of reverence is lost. It’s a nice place. I felt lonely sitting in that pew on Friday night, with all these Masonic figures round me with stern faces and highly starched navy suits. Pah. What’s it all about? Afterwards they fed us an unbelievably huge amount of sandwiches and cakes (classic Presbyterian behaviour) and having not had any dinner, I gravitated towards the sausage rolls, which sadly tasted like dehydrated onion and left the stench and taste of such in my mouth for many hours. (Isn’t my husband a lucky man?) The other things were nice, if oniony from thereon. Also, the hall where we were eating and drinking smelt distinctly of wee.

So I used my slow-cooker for the first time on Saturday and the entire village declared the results an unmitigated success. (I actually don’t know what unmitigated means, but I think it fits with what I’ve written.) I got up early on Saturday morning and fried up some beef, garlic and chillies, drained off the fat, and then popped it into the slow-cooker with a lot of tomatoes, beans and spices, and by 7pm, the most delicious chilli had been achieved. The guests ate and drank and played Articulate! whereupon I was royally thrashed. I blame the red wine, I’m not used to it. Being common as muck, I enjoy a nice sweet white wine, with an ethic of the cheaper the wine the better. I am getting used to red wine, but I strongly dislike the mouth-staining that comes with it, and find myself with an urge part-way through glass 1 to brush my teeth, which of course is not very conducive to wine appreciation. I find drinking red wine somewhat like drinking a liquid fabric. White wine is so crisp and refreshing with that nice warmth down your throat – while red is sort of furry or something. I have had the odd glass of a light summery red which I liked, but unfortunately I never pay attention to anything on the labels of wine other than the price. Popping a couple of bottles into the trolley at Tesco sadly raises the grocery bill to dizzying heights. But I must stop complaining about the prices of things – I am starting to sound like a German.

I missed my stand-up comedy class last night. I spent the afternoon frantically typing up gags and had an argument with the printer when it wouldn’t concur immediately with my printing wishes. When I eventually ran out the door, sweating, to get the bus, I saw it pass me by nonchalantly while I stood on the opposite side of the road, cursing heaven and hell. The traffic was so bad that I spent a good five minutes trying to cross, by which time the bus was well on its way, filled I can only presume with smug and happy passengers. But I am determined! I have grit! So I picked up my heels and ran to the train station. Gasping at the ticket desk, with the train in view on platform 2, I asked the train-staff-person, “Will I have time to catch that train?” Without looking at me, he took my money and gave me a single ticket (supposing I had wanted a return?) and replied, “Platform 2.” I repeated, “Will I make it?” which received a nod in response. I ran across the bridge over the railway lines and as I did so, the bastarding train pulled away. I actually stamped my foot. I stormed back to Mister Ticket Man and enjoyed an altercation which resulted in his informing me that I had been late for the train. I demanded a refund and rather than face any more of my red-faced frustration he complied, whereupon I stomped homeward and angrily ordered a Chinese take-away and watched the soaps. All in all, one of my more successful attempts at overcoming my agoraphobia.

But then again, when you’ve been reading The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, even the biggest failures end up looking like victories.

neuro-praxis – Can he do this?