Tuesday

I was irritable and grumpy this morning, Dan was watching me eat breakfast and I can remember feeling it was like being under a microscope. His behaviour wasn’t any different to normal, but I just felt hypersensitive. Making a cup of tea at work this morning, I sat back down at my computer and realised why; I couldn’t see out my left eye for whizzing dots and whirly patterns. Literally in 2 minutes I had gone from nothing to bleurgh. Normally I wake up of a morning with my migraines, this time it arrived unannounced and unwanted in the middle of the morning, knocking on my head with a ‘View Halloooo’ like a bugle call. I went to the chemist to buy some industrial strength painkillers and also brought a triple shot mocha and a diet coke for the caffeine, as I read recently that it can help alleviate migraines. I am now typing through a fog and feeling a bit queasy, but I can see to work and will carry on as long as I can, I have about 4 hours left of the day to get through and the coffee and 1000mg of paracetamol and codeine seem to have done the job. Even if I am now bouncing of the walls like Tigger from having fully leaded for the first time in ages.

Sat on the tram this morning with what seemed to be the entire teenage population of Melbourne, I wondered if I was that silly at school. I sincerely hope not. One of the boys had a bicycle bell with him that he kept ringing, much to the hilarity of his friends and bemusement of everyone else. Only some people get annoyed with them, most accept that they are children in adults bodies and are all over the place with hormones, trying to work out where they fit in the world. There is the occasional cluck, or heavy sigh with pointed look to teenager concerned (like that will do anything), usually from the elderly people that get on; who complain about how rude the youngsters are while they barge you out the way with their shopping trolleys, elbows and a glare. Growing up in Eastbourne, geriatric grumblings are nothing knew to me, as anyone who worked at the Sovereign Centre will nod along with me – scarred for life from the over 50s club. Their buttercup yellow polo shirts and incessant demands for hotter water/colder water/nice showers and decent tea in the cafe will stay with me forever. As will the two older ladies who would get in the pool within 30 seconds of each other and talk as they pootle up and down, ‘I know!’ ‘Oh I know!’ like Sybill Fawlty. Evidently they were following the unspoken etiket of not talking in the changing rooms, but once in the pool with their blue eyeshadow and turbans on, they are free to talk as much as they like.

I have the same problem over here whenever I go to the gym or swimming, I just get undressed and dressed again, or towel down, dry off and get dressed after getting out the shower. There are embarrassed harrumphing all around me. What else are changing rooms for? I don’t know, after a lifetime of swimming where if you were lucky you got a changing cubicle, you just get used to naked bits.

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