A relapse

I was better ... for a day.  So I had a drink and it hit me BAM.  I had a two day awful hangover with the headache from hell.  I was floored.  Day one was spent in bed and day two on the sofa.  I still have the remnants of the headache on Day 3.  I honestly thought I was recovering from the deadness of my beloved dog but I think it was one of those situations when your brain catches up.  People get migraines over Christmas when the stress of the build up stops.  It is as you destress that the headache catches you.  My god it was a corker.

So all in all I haven't been good for much since we got back from India.  We had one lovely day out in Canterbury when it was sunny. We found a lovely gallery and the cathedral was beautiful and we said prayers for our departed friend.  And that was the last time I felt sad.  Well, I am not ready to talk  about his death or look at too many photos but I am getting better.  The realisation that my dog was more popular than me on Facebook is a bit of an eye opener - need more friends?

I have joined Slimming World with a view to reducing size of backside.  We will see.  Nice friends.  I will give it my best shot.

Today my hairs are to be dressed - Levi Roots.  Party with Mr Smith in London tomorrow and we are staying with sensible Alison.  Ed is fishing.  I wish I wasn't so bloody fat.

The terrible void

Tried to pull myself together.  Went for a walk in the pouring rain with tears streaming down my face.  Met Alcoholic Andy (recovering) at the seaside who tells me his Alsation is on his last legs and was supposed to be put down yesterday but has made a sudden recovery ... temporarily.  Dogs do that.

I wrote a list of things to do: wash hair, moisturise suntanned body; deal with laundry; wash up; go for a walk; make juice; paint a painting.  I managed it all except the painting.  When I got out the book and the paints the energy dwindled and I just couldn't quite face it.  I will try again tomorrow.

I am still very very sad.  I need loving.  I miss my darling dog.  

Dear dog

What's a dog?  A bit of animated fluff on a string upon which you lavish love.  So much love.
Oh the void, the presence of death hanging in the atmosphere of this house.  I have to get out.  I am imprisoned in misery, engulfed in grief.  I cannot function properly.  My head aches as though it has an axe sticking through half my brain.  16 hours sleep a day still isn't enough.  I want my dog.  He has gone.  I loved him so much and he loved me back.  I cry all the time.  I need to do something else, go somewhere else.  I will walk to the sea.  I will walk back.  There will be no dog to greet me on my return.  There was a dead pigeon on the path.  How did it die? I was supposed to move it; I didn't.  Something has dragged it away in the night.  I now feel remiss for being unable to perform the most mundane task but I couldn't deal with any more death.  I think it was too much for me.  To be honest getting out of bed is too much for me.  I might stay here all day.  The duvet mops up the tears quite satisfactorily.  

Post India

We flew back business class.

Our dog is dead and right now so is a part of me.
Why do we have them, all they do is fart and then break your heart by dying.
RIP Basil.  I will never forget you my fluffy friend.

Run rabbit run

Not so much better today although the magic pill worked til 4am when it's marvellous properties suddenly wore off and Clare Balding and I were back on the bog.

I suggested Mr Smith might like to find a local pharmacy.  I know there are two down the road but you would have thought I had asked him to find an igloo on the beach.  He had his blank slightly batey face on so I decided to halt the expedition to the shops and get a top up from Glen the Good Magic Pill man.  He told us when we arrived that should we find ourselves in need of these during our holiday he would be happy to sell us one for the rest of our Indian money in the full knowledge that we would be happy to pay!  I thought he was joking.

Notes from the smallest room

The Goan Gallop is what they call it here.  Oooops the terrible trots.  I naively thought it wouldn't happen to me as I tipped more alcohol down my throat to help down my exotic curry in this heat.  This is where you are suddenly so grateful you are in a five star hotel and, better than that, the rest of your party have gone out on a boat trip .... without you.  Why I thought I would be immune I cannot imagine as I am the sort of traveller whose alimentary canal goes into spasm anywhere south of Brighton.  Anyway, Glen the Good produced a magic yellow pill that I am assured will sort me out.  Waiting for it to work whilst reading Clare Balding's autobiog on the bog in Goa will be a lasting memory.

By the way, Goa is incredibly beautiful but you will just have to excuse me from its splendours today.

Go go Goa

I cancelled the Nuclear Engineers and got on an aeroplane to Bombay.  Then the adventure got going.  Well, there had been an interesting bit at Heathrow when Mr Smith found he had left his bag at home.  Luckily I had the passports and his wallet was in his pocket.

Mumbai airport is probably much as you would imagine an airport to be .... Relaxed, calm, efficient .....yeah .... Not exactly!  Endless slow moving queues of thousands that, when you eventually get through, you discover are the wrong queue.  Thousands of people policed by zaggressive soldiers who won't let you through to the next bit of hell because you don't have the right paperwork.  Well, actually you did have the right paperwork but someone left it on the hall table in Kent!  At this point I felt travelling on my own through India would not be a  particularly dangerous or irresponsible thing to do.  I might even not get sent back to the start of the line again like an impossible computer game.

Well, when I thought we were finally through and stepping onto our plane to Goa, I still got sent back because my handbag wasn't wearing a stamped security tag.  It had been through security but I had to go all the way back to get a smudge on a tag, keeping the bus waiting and the aeroplane revving and, let me tell you, the Indians couldn't give a toss whether you miss your flight.  We are pleased to say we made it.

Glen the Good collected us and were we pleased to see him!

Goa is delicious.  It is the best holiday cocktail.  Even the old git with no paperwork is enjoying himself.    

Rooms vacant

Ooh goodness me, January came and I nearly missed it.  Off to India tomorrow and I am SO excited.

Last night I got a bit drunk in the pub and let all the rooms in our house to Nuclear Power Workers.  These are big burley Northern gits.  I don't think Mr Smith will be very pleased.  Well, it's loads of money so I might win him round. I have to evict the odd customer (my boys) but they have a house of their own so I don't see why they need rooms in mine.  Now to clean it all up for the new lodgers.

Apparently I have to transport big cheeses and bacon to India.  Our friends out there Naomi and Glen the Good must be having a party.