The pace of life was due to increase today. Well, the body disagreed as did the universe. In the UK, a term used for a fart by children is a ‘trump’. So we (the world) had a fart inaugurated as President in the USA and the day in Ugly Derbyshire was also like a stinking puff of gas. Yes, it all stunk, as in it was a bad day.
I don’t suppose I have a right to have an opinion over who our friends in America vote into power. I am no longer sure what is right or wrong with that man, although my gut tells me he is mainly wrong. Mind you, I would have thought his polar opposites in the UK would have been much more right (or actually Left) than him but……not so far. Apparently, one of the reasons he got in (according to him) is that ‘Gladys couldn’t watch TV because there wasn’t enough wind’ – can you see me shrugging with my sore shoulders? Well Gladys, there will be enough of it coming out of his mouth so there shouldn’t be a problem now.
My fart of a day, I think, was due to issues with medication. That and a course I was due to start this evening being postponed for a third time. I had planned to be in the fair city of Nottingham from lunch time onwards. I had a trip to the bank to put money in – not as easy as you would think, I was then planning to be at Bromley House Library all afternoon before heading off to Nottingham Trent University. But…..I am bringing down one of my medications, Gabapentin for anyone interested, under medical advice because I am due to swap to its sibling drug Pregabolin. I guess I came down too quickly yesterday and this caused some nasty reactions.
I was annoyed and depressed. Yes, I wanted kill everyone, alongside crying for no real reason. Well, one of my knees was hurting a lot but not normally something I would cry about. Hurty knees are more of a swearing issue. Crying and stamping your feet like a toddler when you are a Fiftysomething Nobody isn’t a good look when you are in a city centre surrounded by people and with the Police observing all of the weirdos who collect in this space. However, I held it together in the public places, although it was touch and go in the bank.
Moan coming…..Oh my goodness me! What a dog’s breakfast. I just wanted to put some cash in my account along with a cheque which refuses to play with the AI machines for automated Pay In. I had to queue in order to speak with one of the two ‘Purple Guardians’ of the bank. They had their I Pads ( or whatever brand) and their head pieces so they could talk with colleagues. You know, like in mission control at NASA. I explained, I just needed to go to an ordinary cashier. Apparently ‘we don’t do it that way anymore madam’. No really? They were right, it has turned into banking Argos. I had to sit over ‘there’ and wait until my number came up. It was like the scene with the Sloth in Zootopia. I sat (thank goodness otherwise the drug induced anger may have risen in public) for a good 20 mins before I was summoned by name to ‘Keely on the left’, who helpfully had a necklace with her name on. I mean, I wouldn’t want to go the wrong cashier would I? My helpful Sloth, Keely, then took another painful (I was stood up by then) five minutes to just deposit my money. There was lots of tapping on the ‘puter before it was finally done.
In search of protection from the ongoing Farts, I hobbled off to the Bromley House Library just across the Old Market Square. If you have never been, you have to! (Sorry Kamin, I think the ‘Exclamation Mark Farm’ has delivered to many !!!! to me today). Bromley House is a private library that has been in Nottingham since the 1700’s. It ia my Nottingham sanctuary…normally. Not today though, I couldn’t settle. I did try to converse with a lovely group of women who were about to go into their Advanced Latin class but even that didn’t calm my agitation too much. There was an ex-pat American amongst them who was feeling the sadness of Fart Day but she was held together by the Latin Learning she was looking forward to. Each to their own I suppose.
I tried to read (a Children’s book) but I couldn’t concentrate. I had a phone call from the Funeral Director about the lack of vicars. She reassured me that they would find someone for Mum’s internment but the main vicar is retiring at the end of February and the volunteer vicar can’t do the date I wanted (Mum’s birthday). It would appear that in the two parishes we straddle, the only person we have to do the necessaries (Weddings, Funerals etc) is an eighty plus year old man (one of my former school mate’s Dad) who is a volunteer. I don’t even want a vicar but them is the rules apparently (see previous diary entry). It is not anyones fault but the temper and the tears bubbled as I stood in the normally soothing corridor of books.
After returning to the desk I had adopted for the afternoon, I received the email. The course tonight is postponed. I should have been very sympathetic because it seems like the tutor has a similar life to me but in that moment, I wasn’t calm. Sorry tutor lady and I hope your Mum feels better soon but I am pleased you didn’t see my little toddler tantrum. So after all the pain of getting to Nottingham, I set off back home. By now I could weep unseen in the dark but I did have to hold it together on the tram. I was fine to wail uncontrollably in my car after being dumped at the end of the line. Then when I arrived home, I just sat with my elbows on the table in my office chair, and cried again. By now, it was definitely the knee that was playing with my emotions and I could swear like a local farmer, as there was only Himself and the mutts to listen.
I am planning on an early night, and yes, I will take some tablets as I drift off from the Fart of a Day.
