Another Wednesday

I am exhausted. This week I am in a temping job which is sucking my soul out with a blunt syringe. I have tried a few things to cope. I have tried ignoring it, hoping it will go away. I have tried thinking happy thoughts. I have tried cheese twists (with mustard on them). Nothing works, and I fear that my options are diminishing rapidly.

(I am watching Top Gear. I find Richard Hammond curiously alluring and the cars shiny but inexplicable.)

I have a gig on Monday, as a result of the other gig we did a few weeks ago in Kilburn. My head has been whirling all day with songs, but now I'm home all I can seem to have the energy to do is sit, blog, ignore the television and be elbowed by the dog.

(I am at my parents' house, even though I now have a home of my own in Brixton. It lies empty. I have to wait until the weekend to get any of my stuff there. I still don't have a bed.)

(Jeremy Clarkson is being witty but irritating. My big sister will be round in a bit. My Mum is cooking nice things with prawns in. The dog appears to be licking a sofa cushion.)

I have nothing to write except for disparate nothings. Temping is horrible and it makes me cross and really rather void of personality.

The phone is ringing, and I have to go and do something to negate the hours I have spent staring hopelessly at spreadsheets today. Spreadsheets are not my friends.

A glass of red wine sits waiting for me so I will drink it and spur myself to do something productive. Hang on, let me find some enthusiasm.

Now I have found some! My sister is here! I will put the depression of temping and the pressure of lost productivity behind me, set the table and go and relax.

UPDATE:

It is just after six thirty in the morning. I am staring down the barrel of another whole day in a job the very thought of which makes me want to throw up. I can't decide what to wear because I don't own much suitable for the firey pits of hell (smart casual).

Last night I could barely even talk from horror at the thought of having to get up this morning. I made a phonecall, hung up after a meagre five minutes because I had nothing to say that wouldn't have just sounded like a series of high-pitched wails about my pathetic excuse for a life. I don't want to inflict that on my friends so instead I must turn to the Internet.

This job, it would appear, has brought out the drama queen in me. Never very far from the surface anyway, she has emerged in full regalia, bursting with anguish.

Today I will try to refuse to be paralysed by this, try to use every spare minute to plan and make changes. It is difficult, though, because I feel for all the world like a train just hit me.