I wasn’t going to write another blog so soon. Yesterday was my first, and I had intended to write another in about a week. Funny how Fate changes your whole day, without anybody’s permission, or even a note from it’s mother.
As I attacked my Cumberland sausage rather forcefully at lunch today, my other half asked me “Why are you so angry?” I looked at him in surprise. “I’m not angry, my fork just slipped!” He didn’t look very convinced. I suppose I had just spent the last half an hour banging around in the kitchen, fighting a battle with a cooker that just won’t submit. (A whole other blog post!) So, he had a point, maybe…
It wasn’t until after I had purposefully dropped, (yes, purposefully!) and smashed, one of OH’s mugs on the floor (it has always irritated me that it doesn’t fit properly in my Cup cupboard), that I realised that yes, I do feel very slightly angry. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who has done this? Or I will feel really awful!)
You may stop now, dear Reader of Blogs, if you are of a sensitive disposition. I may not be the decent, well-balanced person that I think you think I am! (Confused? Welcome to my World!)
It’s the day after New Years Day, I told myself. I am still on holiday, until Monday. What the heck have I got to be angry about?
Whilst impatiently doing the hoovering again, (damn those blasted pine needles), countless reasons came flooding in, all jostling and shoving each other to get first in line, like desperate pre-teens at a ‘one night only’ One Direction concert.
Some of the reasons I feel angry are:
that the housework is always bloomin’ there, and even if I leave it for two weeks, (minging, I know!) it will bother absolutely no one except me. (Tried it, doesn’t work!)
that OH’s family keep inviting us to non-essential social events, when I’d much rather be getting on with my book. I would like to get it finished by the end of the year. Of course my husband is much too well-trained to refuse such invitations, that’s not the Swiss way!
that OH has never mentioned my book or my writing to his family. I don’t want praise or lots of politely interested queries, but it would be nice to think that he is proud of me in some way.
that by the time I ever manage to sit down and write a few pages, usually well after 5:30 pm, everybody starts coming home, and leaning over me at the PC, asking me “What’s for dinner?”, and other randomly pointless questions.
that today, I didn’t even had a chance to look in the mirror, until about 2 pm. Thank God we haven’t have unexpected visitors, my hair looks decidedly wild, weird and frizzy! (Grey bits now showing as well, ugh!)
that no one except me ever remembers to water the Christmas tree, (hence the excessive hoovering!) Ditto the Guinea Pigs, and various half-dead plants.
that I am the ‘Grand Reference library Central’ for all lost articles urgently needed in the next five minutes. Socks, keys, favourite sweatshirts, school books… (The list goes on and on…) And on.
that happy couples keep posting self-satisfied, loved-up statements, about how sweet and thoughtful their OH is, and what lovely perfect presents they received from their lovely perfect partners. Bitter? Moi? Mais oui!
that the family once again nagged me to write a Christmas list, and once again I received absolutely nothing I had written on the aforementioned list, even though I specifically included lots of cheaper stuff, so my 13 yr old could afford something from it!
that I really don’t want to be here anymore, but that I have no choice but to stick it out for a few more years. I feel so ungrateful, because everyone tells me how lucky I am to live in a such a beautiful country. It is pretty, and very clean, but it’s also very regimented, humourless, and at times, lonely. I suppose I just miss my English family, and the comfort of a familiar culture.
that no one gets my jokes over here, not even my own family. They have become completely Swisser-ized, unfortunately. The Swiss have a very unsophisticated sense of humour, one could almost call it ‘toilet humour’. Sarcasm and wordplay is lost on them sadly, especially in my un-altering, faltering ‘Swinglish’.
that, even as I write this post, I know that I am, in fact, committing self-sabotage. I could be writing pages for my book, but no, anything to put off the really hard work that I know is coming, one fine day! Basically, I think I am just angry at myself most of the time. But I know that I will forgive myself, eventually, so it’s all good!
Somebody I know wrote a brilliant and thought-provoking blog the other day, about why she was so angry. I’d like to apologise to her for my inferior post. I am also angry about the things she wrote about, but these are my own personal, possibly trivial, and much less worthy reasons!
Phew! Suddenly feeling very calm and serene.
All sausages are now safe, and can come out of hiding.