I've Spat the Dummy

Yes. Today the slabbery dummy is at the far side of my bedroom while I'm sulking in my bed. Why? I dunno. I am in a grump. I want to go rock climbing in Donegal. But I am in my bed in a loyalist area of Belfast. I have been awake for hours and have had a shower, breakfast, some reading time, some writing time and thinking time.

Perhaps this is what has made me grumpy?

Or is it the dead pigeon on the balcony. Sad to say, Aubrey has not taken his pigeon removal duties very seriously. Instead he tucked away a nice Chinese, 1 pint of Guinness, 2 Carlsberg and God Knows how much of my nice Havana Club rum. Aubrey rhymes with Strawberry. And I am left wondering which smells worse: the Dead Pigeon, the Nest of Living Pigeons or The Tenant.

Anyway. The spat dummy. I think it comes from the feeling that May is the best month of the Irish year (I was born on this month) and is the prettiest month, and is a month that I had planned for a wee bit of relaxation, for finishing my novel and finishing my flat.

Of course I get back from holiday and find that those very small, obviously unambitious and very manageable goals are complete bollix, especially when you add in all the other crap you find yourself having to do that wasn't on the horizon while you were on holiday. Like work. And your accounts. And being tired out.

So. Rock-climbing's where my head's at. I feel like I need to scale heights with rocks beneath me and the airy sky above. But I guess I'll be trying to snatch hours with Majella (the hair-o-inn of me novel), making a DIY to-do list (should that be a To-DIY list?) and picking dead birds up offa me balcony.

Or I could just put on a fabulous silk dress and go trailing down a beach in Donegal with a bottle of champagne.

Decisions, decisions...