going for Baroque, once again

Okay. I have shaken off a simply enormous, terrifying, slobbery black dog, and I am going for a swim (in case they then tell me I can’t) and then, at protracted length I’m sure (the 276 bus on a Sunday? Come on), to the Homerton Hospital A&E department. Some of us get all the fun. I’ll be the one in glasses, limping.

I should have gone yesterday but I just couldn’t face it. My ankle, sprained as regular readers may recall on JULY 30th, is STILL swollen and painful,after being seen in A&E a month ago today, and by the GP two weeks ago, who merely SHRUGGED and had to be badgered to refer me to physio. I have spent the majority of that time inside, on my own, in my flat, trying to get work and to figure out what the hell has happened to me since this time last year. Catapulted out of every single comfort zone, except for poor old Baroque Mansions itself.

I can’t help wondering if this sprained ankle is either a curse of some kind or a physical manifestation of the recession. A lesson of some kind. It certainly seems very odd and otherwise unaccountable, and in fact has revealed its true malignity only very slowly. It’s worse again since Thursday, when I went to town (like James James Morrison Morrison Wetherby George DuPree’s mother) for two agency registration interviews, all taped up under unseasonably thick tights, feeling like Tootsie. Rather raises the question of what will happen if I do get work, you know? The weirdo temp, typing round her knee with her foot on the open-plan desk, in trainers? I hardly think so dollinks.

I’m taking my laptop to the hospital; I want to cripple my right shoulder as well, if at all possible. Also, if something terrible happened and they didn’t let me go home (that has happened to me, though admittedly not with a sore foot) I’d have it there. And it helps to imagine that somehow, just by keeping it with me at all times, something is getting written by osmosis. There’s half a poem on it about a Countess overlooking a river with glowering clouds and tall windows held down by carvings like a straitjacket, and a railing. Not sure what happens yet. I’m also taking Wallace Stevens, Necessary Angels, because there’s a bit in there I might want to quote in the essay I still, ridiculously, owe Jane Holland at the Horizon Review (hi Jane, I’m doing it, oh God).

I mean, I’ve been here on my own in the flat for two solid days with nothing but 2,000 books and several Gérard Depardieu films for company, and I haven’t done anything. (I tried to watch the French TV cop thriller, Spiral. Well done. Unspeakably depressing. Dear God in heaven.) I even found a little 1950 edition of The Lady’s Not for Burning, by Christopher Fry, for 70p in Oxfam – delightful! – & I haven’t managed to read beyond Scene One! Now THAT is serious. Its lines unroll before me like a carpet, revealing themselves as they go to be known by heart. I loved it as a kid.

After that, well, who knows. I’m meant to be cooking for the progeny this evening, which is in itself very exciting: to think I used to have to do it four or five times a day.

Okay, watch me go…

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