It’s been a mixed day today.
The good part was some nifty on-line detective work that tracked down a hotel Chris and I stayed in at Douarnenez, four years ago, and then booking Teddy and me in for one night next Monday. It has a private jacuzzi that Chris and I enjoyed during our visit. I’m pretty sure everyone makes love in it but you try not to think about the previous couple as you lock the door and climb into the bubbling hot tub.
The bad part was the pissing rain and being trapped inside a small camper van with a wet, frustrated dog. I did a bit of client work and translated a short Breton mermaid story (which wasn’t so bad, I guess) but I still felt stir crazy by about 4.00pm. I hung on until nearly 6.00pm before cracking open the whisky and managed not to get legless. That word looks odd, should it be Legolas? Nope, he was an elf. Legless it is then. Maybe I didn’t quite manage to stay sober.
The ugly part was the rage I felt at Chris for inflicting this bloody empty existence on me. They say that anger is a stage of grief but I’d not experienced it before. Take my word for it, it’s not pretty. You try to think respectfully of your beloved but you hate them for leaving you. In my semi-drunken state I turned to poetry. I won’t (dis)grace this page with what I wrote, suffice to say it’s called Fuck You.
I’m hoping for better tomorrow.
Coming Home to Story 