Malingering with intent

Work update: I talked, he listened, so far nothing has changed. We’ll see. In the meantime, I just e-mailed the copy-editor of the local newspaper about maybe getting some part time work or even just going in for free. The worst she can do is ignore me, which would make no difference. I love e-mail, though I know if I was a Proper Person I’d ring up instead. But I hate cold calling.

The weekend was lovely; we bought bookshelves, so there is now more order in our lives and room for lots more books. We had friends to dinner twice (once planned and once spur of the moment; same friends both times). We went to the cinema and watched a video. We bought cute things for new babies.

Yesterday morning I was feeling weird, slightly dizzy and slightly woozy and generally a bit rough with no hint of alcohol on Saturday night to blame it on. So I decided to be pretend-sick, which meant I was allowed to watch telly and not do anything. It was very restorative, and I discovered why everyone raves about Queer Eye. It’s like What Not to Wear and about seven other home-décor (my god, Word just put that accent on by magic), date-doctor, makeover shows all in one, with hilariously irreverant gay men trash-talking their poor victim’s taste. Fabulous. Also fabulous is the fashion-designer reality show with Austin, who they’re obviously just keeping in because he gives great melodrama, with his lipgloss and his hairclips and his bawling into the cushion because he’s going to lose, and then because that poor girl made the terrible mistake of being modest for a moment and said she herself was the weakest team member, so she was booted off, Austin bawled again, this time because he’s still in the game.

I tell you, pretending to be sick is the greatest. Luckily I recovered in time to go and see Kinsey and then drink some wine with my lovingly-home-made-and-not-by-me pizza.