I don't get depressed. Down a bit for sure. Occasionlly sad such as when dads or dogs died or England lose on penalties. But I've been fortunate in having a fairly upbeat personality by and large and I laugh a lot, often insensitively but you can't have everything.
But it's been a difficult week. Weeks after holidays always are for me. The only person I have known here for more than a few months has been away on a health and safety course and so, after a lovely week's holiday, its been quite weird. There's no getting away from the fact that intimate relationships of mutual self-disclosure take time and seem to take me more time than most. I quite like me now but it's taken a big chunk of my half century to get there.
So Valentine's night was with my second love (football) and my third (ribeye steak) and today I need to deal with that strange mix of too-long hair, a dirty car, a full ironing basket and a nagging toothache in a mouth already full of ulcers which tend to appear when I stop for a week. The natural cycle of my week with day-off Friday has been altered by a funeral at a point too late to do anything about it. An undertaker character in one of my stories once complained that the industry would be made a lot easier by people passing away in chronological order, Monday to Friday only, excluding bank holidays. My industry would be made a lot easier by oh stupid start to a sentence it could go on for ever.
I'm on my fourth hair stylist in four months. The first was rubbish. The second was OK but left the country. The third was marvellous and very gay (we spoke of shoes and nineties pop) but he also left the country and so seconds out, round four with Billy (female I believe) as recommended by Kate (female I'm certain).
I'll be snapping out of it ready for my favourite church staff meeting tonight about which, almost certainly, more tomorrow. Billy. I'm on my way.