Not really blue, just a bit aimless, without much purpose, or focus, or energy to do anything more than make cups of peppermint tea and worry a bit about my disturbed digestion. The Lovely Son is here, and says that I have typical post-holiday dislike of my life, home, country; on the other hand, he also says that I tell him 20 times a day how lovely Harry is and how much I love him (Harry, that is; the gorgeous fat Harry) despite his nasty habit of pulling clumps of fur out and leaving them all over the house. I also love Kevin, so clearly Post-Holiday Dislike has its limitations, and doesn't include cats. But it's hard to feel enthusiastic about anything else.
Flying upsets my insides; they hurt when I eat, and even dull, light, invalid-type food feels like I've swallowed a large boulder. And upset insides are not conducive to settling back happily into a productive lifestyle whereby one day I might join the ranks of those bright and bushy-tailed retired people who say they are busier than they have ever been before in their lives. I am doing very little indeed. Actually, I hate the idea of ever being busier than than I was when I worked; it wasn't nice then, and it wouldn't be nice again. And if it did happen, I would expect friends to forcibly drag me back to my senses and order daily lie-ins and afternoon naps, heaps of magazines and long phone calls, all great busy-ness avoiders.
But the Lovely Son and I will do something productive tomorrow, weather permitting. We will use the pressure washer and clear the green nastiness off the back yard, and we might make it to the allotment to weep over the weeds. We will prime the allotment fence with clumps of cat fur for little birds to line their nests with, and we will think that we have done more than enough for one day.
Oh, and on Tuesday the dog is going to get her hair cut. She looks amazingly scruffy and shapeless; time to reveal that trim little shape and those boot-button eyes again. I shall post before and after pictures for the amusement of her public.