My dear mamma used to tell me that only boring people were bored. This is a painful thought; I must be positively stultifying, because, as things stand at present, I am pretty much climbing the walls - or I would be, if the walls in our house weren't made of cardboard, or close enough, and probably wouldn't take my weight. I'm thinking of poking out my own eyes just for the sake of something to do.
I still can't walk very far, and I hate having to depend on Judy to ferry me around. And people have stopped coming to visit, the novelty, presumably, having worn off. I can't say I blame them; since I never go anywhere or do anything, I have nothing to talk about. Hence: boring.
What can I do? Cook? I'm just not that enthusiastic about food at the moment. Garden? The garden is Judy's domain, plus the last bit of garden work I did knocked me out for several days afterward. The same goes for housework: I try and keep up with what really needs doing, but it's knackering. I did sew a button on a jacket the other day. I damn near broke out the flags and bunting to celebrate that achievement. Retail therapy is out of the question, as there's no money coming in - which is depressing enough all by itself. As for games ... I swear, when I come out the other side of this, assuming I do, I shall never want to play another game again.
About the only thing I have been doing is reading, and then writing snarky reviews of better writers than I am. (Here if you were wondering, which I doubt you were.)
And just about everything is depressing: the news, the weather. The fact that the most excitement I'm likely to have in the near future is major surgery, which will then involve a long and grim-sounding recovery ...
It's being so cheerful as keeps me going. But, honestly, I think I'm about to grind to a complete .
