I rarely have moods. I get happy or sad, excited or frustrated, delighted or furious. These emotions usually have a reason behind them. I can deal with most of them reasonably well, most of the time. What I have no defences against are random moods, which come out of a clear blue sky, and stick in the gullet like a stone.
I managed to get my work done and plaster a smile on my face and act like a fairly responsible adult. Inside, I was yelling fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
It may be too much news. Someone I love very much does not watch the news. I sort of think that a grown-up should, but she may have a point. There’s so much one mere human cannot do, in the face of the endless gaudy parade of tragic world events. Does my opinion matter, when all the furious commentators are howling again about the clash of civilisations, and how this is a war which shall never end?
I do my work and put in a call to the Perspective Police (the line is out of order) and attempt to concentrate on the small things and think, just like Scarlett O’Hara, one of my least favourite heroines in popular culture, that tomorrow is another day.
Just one, from Saturday. The one that says: how can you be grumpy when you have a beauty like this in your life?
Her loveliness knows no bounds. Her beauty is internal and external. I’m going to think very, very hard about that.