This week I am still recovering from my visit to Falkland Palace last week. I’ve had several days where it’s been hard to get up, I’ve been tired all day and I have accomplished fuck all.
It probably didn’t help that I had an epic (for me, at least) journey to Dunfermline first thing on Monday morning to get my boobs checked out. As I mentioned in my post about breasts and breast health I had a bit of a scare so I wanted to be sure that there was nothing wrong. It turns out that they’re absolutely fine and I probably don’t have to worry about a breast cancer gene in the family.
The journey was an enormous pain in the arse. I had to get up at the sort of time I’d normally be going to bed and then get two buses. Changing buses involved standing around at a freezing crossroads for an unreasonable amount of time. After a couple of hours of poking and scanning I had to go home, which should have been easier in theory because I didn’t have to worry about an appointment time. Somehow it still involved standing around waiting for a bus and wondering if it was ever going to show.
The other annoying thing this week is that my spouse has been ill and I’ve had to drag myself to the pharmacy and the shops to get supplies. I don’t want to go into precisely what’s wrong with my spouse because I respect their privacy but it’s not serious or life threatening as long as it gets treated. It does mean that I’m feeling particularly useless because I can’t take care of them the way I feel like I should.
The week wasn’t a complete bust. I read 4 chapters of Death Will Find Me by Vanessa Roberson, listened to the first half of Lies Sleeping by Ben Aaronovitch with my spouse, and a chunk of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson solo. I also wrote about a thousand words of my current work in progress and worked out how to fix a scene with a difficult overlapping conversation. I’ve also been working on a large triangle shawl for my Mother but that might count as procrastination.