Nailed

I've been walking around for two days with a nail digging into my foot.

At first, I thought it was City grit that had repetitively found its way into my black, flat ballet shoes but no, it was the tip of a nail from where the idiot at Timpson's had re-heeled the shoe and had driven the point in so that when I walk, the metal pierces me.

I only noticed when I saw blood on the base of my foot and brought the shoe close for inspection. Tetanus? Hmm, think I had a jab a few years back. Can't really recall...

It hurts when I walk, as you'd expect. Bloody bastard. Shouldn't they check these things? Hmph.

12 hours...

...of sleep! I went to bed at 00:44 and got out of bed (admittedly having dozed a little from 11am) – at 12.53pm! Excellent. I am currently having breakfast at 2.30pm and intend to do nothing but practise the art of kung fu with S later in the park. It is sunny again – at least 21C – so it will be wonderful out there. The garden looks sweet, pansies of various vibrant colours have popped up, rosebuds have formed on the climber I planted in November and the patio plants are stretching upwards.

The latest with the work situation in a small nutshell: I have received no communication from C. She has not called, emailed, sent a letter, delegated a reply to a minion or come round to have a cup of tea. I emailed her underling, L, to reprise the situation in a pleasant, brief, open manner i.e: that I'm in shock at C's decision to write me off as a writer, that I'd been told I'd done a good job, and that I want swift resolution. I didn't expect L to reply but wanted to include him in the loop, in case he had been told by anyone that I had said bad things about him. You never know. What a mess.

Anyway, I'm waiting till Monday's over (which is when C is back in the office) and expect a reply to follow quickly or I will be forced to look into my options regarding the recovery of my work and reputation. You can't say I haven't tried to sort things out. I am excruciatingly fed-up with this situation.

Otherwise, the work I've been doing has been good. It's a long commute to get there but the trains aren't too bad (oh, and the two bus journeys either end!). I do, however, need to get to bed earlier as I was again totally exhausted last night; I'm not used to not working at home so much. I met R for dinner in Covent Garden, which was impromptu and enjoyable, and S brought me home from the station. I was so tired I could barely talk sense, but all was better once I went to bed.

Another thing is that I am now officially a director of my own company, VAT-registered, have a new website, new business stationery and a business bank account. I received letters addressed to 'The Director'. Very satisfying.

Paris: part two

If the second day of my Paris break was sunny and a joy to behold, the third (last) day was sunnier and the joy even deeper.

The downside was that I hadn't slept well again, really not sure why, so I switched my alarm off as soon as it sounded at 8.30am, hoping I could rest a little more. Thankfully, I had forgotten to hang the 'please do not disturb' sign over the outer door handle before going to bed, and was woken by a chambermaid knocking to see if I was there as she wanted to clean the room. It was about 9.45am. I stumbled to the door, she took one look at my sleep-swollen eyes and backed away, apologies falling from her smiling, embarrassed lips. If she had not arrived, I may have slept until past breakfast, and that would have been a waste of time, money and lovely food.

Having made the effort to stand up, I progressed to the window and was greeted by a beautiful day. So, I showered and made my way down to breakfast where I filled my stomach with some of the most delicious bacon and scrambled egg I've eaten in ages. Plus fruit, bread, cheese, pastries and lots of black tea...

I was sad to leave my garret room (albeit an executive suite...) with its stunning views and lovely interior, and sad, too, to check out. The hotel staff had been superb. I hope to return. The time I had this far spent in Paris had somehow cleared my head, given me energy and – yeah, OK – given me back my joie de vivre, which had been hiding, suffocating and fading away underneath a pile of work and exhaustion. Oh, and another thing was that people were talking back to me in French! I had studied the subject when exams woz exams – GCE O-level, not GCSE sub-level... I managed to get an 'A' and to this day regret not studying French at A-level and beyond. The language is, to my ears anyway, magical. It was rewarding to converse in French (where it all came back from, I don't know). I understood more than I could speak but I did sit my O-levels more than 20 years ago, so that was OK. It was strangely empowering.

So, today was shopping day and my first target was to buy candles at Diptyque. I sneezed after inhaling one particular version and couldn't stop, which was slightly annoying for me and the sales assistant. Eventually, I chose two that didn't cause an allergic reaction. The dapper assistant asked if the candles were for me or were a gift so I said 'a gift', knowing that they were a gift (ahem) for me... This meant they were presented wrapped in delicate pink and purple paper, tied with ribbon, and he also threw in some fragrance samples with a wide smile.

Next, I walked towards Notre Dame en route to St Paul and Le Marais again. My ultimate target was Place des Vosges, which had been too packed the previous day when I was out with Inz and V, what with it being the weekend. The sky, as the picture below shows, was clear and blue. I was even wearing sun protection cream. Yes, it really was that hot.

Approaching Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Notre Dame is beautiful. Well, what else can you say? It draws visitors like a magnet by dint of what it is and where it is, surrounded by the Seine, and visible from several of the bridges that cross the river. The only thing that spoils it is the crowds of people outside its front, so it was a pleasant surprise to discover this area, to the side, where it was quieter and weirdly hushed.

Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

It was one of those mornings that made your eyes open wider and your lungs expand. People walked around smiling, or perhaps it could have been the case that I had a smile plastered on my face and they were simply smiling back.

Seats around Notre Dame © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

Could this street (below) be anywhere but in Paris? It was on the way to Place des Vosges, its surface still wet from the rain that must have fallen (mercifully) the previous night.

Narrow street, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

On my way, I spotted this traffic light. It made me do a double-take, especially as my long sight is no longer what it used to be. But, yes, there it was, a heart-stopping sight. The lights then went green so I stood there fiddling with my camera until the cars stopped again. People watched me watching the traffic light, possibly thinking I was slightly eccentric. Good.

Heart traffic light, Parisian street © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

And then, I reached Place des Vosges, with its archways and tiny shops and galleries, many of which were extremely expensive and exclusive. I bought a couple of things (yes, they are presents, yes, they are for me, and they were within my budget)... and had a very long and pleasant chat in French with a middle-aged man who explained the history of a company to me (in French), with me able to make observations (in French!) back to him. For that moment, at least, I felt like a bloody genius, especially when Monsieur fell for my haggling in his mother tongue. I was triumphant.

Place des Vosges, Paris © Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved

I had, by this point, walked for a few hours but didn't want to waste time sitting down for too long. I had Shopping to do and needed to get to Rue de Rennes to buy some presents – not for me this time, but some more things for S, who deserves plenty of extra treats for helping me through my sleeping disorder. I got on to the Metro at St Paul and got off at St Germain-des-Prés, wandered up Rue de Rennes, as per Inz's instructions, found some lovely stuff for S, which involved spending some time in a specialist chocolate shop among other places, and exhausted, went back to the hotel.

Having eaten no lunch, I stopped off for a takeaway croque monsieur and a mille-feuille from a café near my hotel and encountered the only rude Parisienne of my entire trip (apart from two snooty ones in a shop in Le Marais but that's slightly acceptable; they did at least say hello, while conveying "you cannot afford this"; little did they know, the silly idiots, I am a woman with a budget, I have not had four weeks' holiday per annum for five years and this was payback time. I felt like Julia Roberts in the shopping scene in Pretty Woman, but without being a whore, of course).

Anyway, the sour-faced café woman, who looked at me as though I was an alien, handled the pastry with her fingers and was rude (in French, which, yes, I understood). "Take it! Take it then, go on!" she demanded, holding out her sloppy, heated, cheesy offering. Bitch. I glared at her as I left and muttered something Anglo-Saxon in her direction. While waiting for my taxi in the hotel lobby, I ate some of the croque monsieur but chucked the pastry in the bin. At least the sealed bottle of Badoit was uncontaminated by her ugly bitterness.

So, that was nearly that. The taxi arrived, I thanked the front of house staff at the hotel for a wonderful stay and before I knew it, I was hauling my bags around the Eurostar terminal trying to find somewhere to sit. I gave up on duty free – I couldn't leave my baggage, not in this day and age and all that, and my fingers were already strained and purple from the effort of carrying the things I'd bought.

When I found my seat on the train, which took longer than it should have as I was initially in the wrong carriage as the Eurostar staff hadn't bothered to number them on the outside as they normally do, I took out some paper and sketched out a storyline and characters for a new novel. The woman next to me, who was French, and had terrible halitosis, kept glancing over at my frantic writing and smiling at me. I just wanted her to keep glancing at her book and not breathe in my direction, but it was nice to be seated next to a friendly, if smelly, face.

From Waterloo, it's easy for me to get on to my London train and get home. Dear S was there on my home station platform, beaming, if looking a little peaky and thin. He had been ill while I was away. Poor S, he doesn't look after himself very well when I'm away. He eats poorly and loses his ability to sleep like a log. It was lovely to get home. I began to tell S some of my tales but as he had been – and was still – unwell, I encouraged him to sleep, which he did soundly after making protestations, while I pottered around in a state of rejuvenation, tiredness and happiness. I slept like a dream that night, too.

Kung fu fighting

Don't mess with me. I am learning kung fu. The first session was tough going – especially the military-style warm-up – but I don't ache as much as I thought I would, and S says he feels OK, too. Those rogue sessions of yoga must have really done me some good, considering I haven't exercised much since 2003 or thereabouts.

The venue was a church hall. We had to go barefoot and run around lots and lots, kicking and stretching and punching. The lack of footwear took me back to my very early days. I can't recall having such dirty feet! Still, it was worth it. I have learned a couple of things, possibly not very well, but hey, I've only been once. S and I really enjoyed it, masochists that we are.

I have had bags of energy today but now (7.09pm), I am feeling tired. I have rushed around and done lots and planned plenty and so on. I feel almost normal if a little manic and 'bitey', if that makes sense. Perhaps it is just the shock of having some energy again. Kung fu was great for ridding me of my anger at GFG keeping us awake with her hours of DIY post 11.30pm, plus some irritating worky matters. GFG can be an inconsiderate woman, and is old enough to know better. Hmph.

Wish I could kung fu kick the Oval's stupid, slow browser so that it works faster. So effing slow. Round and round the 'loading' thing goes and although I have a username etc, I can't find where to put it in, so am being asked to register again. Except I won't as I can't be arsed to waste an hour sitting here while the bloody page loads. I can't be bothered waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting. Boring. Does anyone know? Where the bloody hell are you meant to log in?????? I hate websites that fail to tell you the most obvious. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr x 10 million. So, no cricket because I can't sodding well buggery well f*cking well log in! Bollocks!

A cricket aside: weird how they are now saying that Bob Woolmer may have been murdered. My friend SS interviewed him in St Lucia last year (SS does some sports journalism and got to make a dream trip out there). He said Bob was a very amiable chap. You could hear the waves in the background on SS's tape. Horrible stuff though, this recent development. I hope it's untrue.

My forthcoming interview at the agency was cancelled by simpering Amanda who called to say she didn't have time to meet me as some other people were away and she had to go to an important meeting and she had to cover. She probably has a hair appointment, which incidentally, is what I had today, in preparation for the flipping interview that will now be sometime in April. Grrrr. Well, bugger you, Amanda. Anyway, at least I have three rather good references ready to distribute now – my referees came up with trumps within 24 hours, which is fantastic in my book.

So, my hair now looks shaped, shiny and layered, and I can now permanently dispense with Louise (who used to manage to brush my face with her metal pronged hairbrush). I will now use the services of my new male discovery at the same salon, a 49-year-old heterosexual grandfather, who can actually cut hair without skinning your cheeks. He got a bit emotional when he told me about the poor treatment his late father had had in hospital and I of course, got on to my hobby horse and rode around on my opinions, fuming for the poor man and his family. Louise was on holiday this week. I'm pleased. She does all that tedious, mind-numbing, knuckle-crackling where do you go for holidays/ what do you do/ you going anywhere nice tonight/ where do you live stuff that makes you want to run to the sink with a plugged-in hairdryer and the person in question – Louise – while wearing an insulated rubber suit, of course.

Ah, I feel much better for getting that all out. Thanks for listening.

New business?

Went to the bank to sort out my business account, as per the taxman's requests and all that. But I'm now beginning to worry that I won't have any business, post April, to have to account for.

I keep writing stuff in this entry and deleting it. I can't explain how I feel, except to say very frustrated.

I was offered some work for 'after next week' but my holiday, which I must take, gets in the way, as do a few shifts I've got lined up mid-April. My holiday is now a problem. God, that depresses me deeply. Now, some other person – the golden boy, by all accounts, who seems to be permanently on standby – will likely get this work that I had started counting on after it was mentioned to me yesterday.

I've slaved so hard lately, it would just be nice to have some stuff lined up so that after my holiday, the first thing I'm doing is not hunting for work. The person who is commissioning the work, J, a friend, is going to do his best to try to wangle it so the work comes my way, but I don't know if the people who commission him will wait. They are all soooo busy but yet it will take them ages to get back with any amendments that need making, expecting the writer to drop everything and do it all by tomorrow! None of this is J's fault. I've possibly been an awkward, annoying sod as far as he is concerned but other people in my (currently tottery) shoes might feel the same way when faced with such inconsistent corporate rigidity. I'm also a bit hurt that I'm not on this organisation's A-list after working there for as long as I did (or, if I am on the list, no one ever tells me!). I get occasional "C and L think you are great!" but such comments come from people with at least three degrees of separation from the sources.

The organisation in question has made me jump through hoops lately for other projects (moving deadlines etc), and I've been far more flexible than most people would put up with (I have to fit around their holidays/ days off etc). But it seems I lose out as hey, now I have a fucking holiday, and I have a few shifts booked. I want to scream. You can guarantee that these people will subsequently work at a snail's pace and... grrrrrrr... I must stop thinking about this now. Maybe they will be accommodating if they want me. This latest episode is not what I need right now. I do not need to feel deflated and at the mercy of other people's vagaries. I've had that and am done with it. This may all sound a bit over-dramatic but when you are clutching on to what you can in terms of life's certainties (and by that I mean Maslow's low-level essentials, such as having money coming in to buy food and shelter/ pay bills in 2007 speak), having a solid patch of work ahead looms like a large, sweet carrot. I defy anyone to try feeling level-headed and calm with months and months of sleep deficit hanging over their head.

The agency may also find me something new, and better; they were impressed by my CV and I know I am good at what I do, so those others who don't realise it and don't appreciate me can get stuffed. I need to get some work references to take along with me but don't want to ask anyone, or, rather, don't know who to approach. I asked lots of people for testimonials for my website and only four bothered to get back to me with anything I could use, one of these four has promised me a glowing reference but she has since forgotten all about it. Must email her. Maybe the rest of them find it all a bit too embarrassing. Hmm. I wouldn't have just not bothered to get back to such a request if the boot had been on the other foot, that's for sure. This is work, for goodness sake!

But that's me, I am a mug. I suppose I need to look out for number one a bit (much?) more. Right now, I feel like a bloody fool, sorting out other people's lives and evidently neglecting my own along the way. I am almost always the one to call, email, make arrangements, pick this or that up, meet at place X instead of place Y, be nice for the neighbours even though I'm ill, give glowing references, get people work/ ideas that I could act on myself, conjure up plans to make others' lives easier, research stuff that could help them with various problems, that sort of caboodle.

So, what is the point of being nicey-nicey and helpful all the time? Most people only look after themselves, and you are simply incidental. End of. This makes me feel like crying. I need to just get over it and stop expecting too much. "That way, you're never disappointed..." How many people have told me that?! Plenty. But the thing is, never expecting anything is a bad thing, isn't it? Doesn't it show a lack of faith in humanity? I'm not sure I could be so cynical. But I do need to strike a balance.

Oh, and I didn't sleep very well, despite a double-dose.

Awake and online

I still feel tired but am more alert, which is an amazing thing for me at the moment. Really, amazing. I am beginning to recall what it's like to feel normal again. Mmm. It is a beautiful spring day, dreamy, and I can appreciate it for the first time in ages. The tablet side-effects are alarming but I don't appear to have any (touch wood etc). I am definitely sleeping for longer periods and, when I do wake, I don't stay awake for four hours any longer. But, typical me, I'm wondering what happens when I come off them. Hopefully, my body clock will have re-set so that I don't need any help. I shall ask my sleep guru doctor to assure me about this.

I've never worked so hard in all my life due to tiredness and the demands that have been placed on me this year. I try not to let it show but it does at times, and when it does, I don't care too much. If I appear grumpy, so what? I'm sodding well unwell and where other people would take to their beds, I bloody don't. If I tell the cretin at BT that her company has 'fucked up my phone', and that I am 'fucking sick of it', it is fair, frankly, no matter how much they whinge at the other end. I am fed up with being polite and nice and being patronised by a) BT b) commissioning editors and c) estate agents.

I should probably explain a) and c) a little more. The first – well, where do I start? To cut a long, tedious story short, the morons at BT decided to cut me off (while fixing GFG's new phone line) so I had no phone and internet, and, despite my pleading, and their numerous empty promises, it took them five days to fix it (even though the problem was due to their engineers). This resulted in me losing days of work and my stress levels flying through the roof into lunar orbit.



I wished I could have stepped into Michael Douglas's shoes in Falling Down and had my way with the bunch of liars who comprise most of BT's customer 'service' department. I have never been lied to and patronised as much as I have by BT. I detest that company. Oh, and the man I spoke to at their press office is a small-minded, sarcastic scrote. I shall get him back good and proper, a cold dish served right in his face. Cannot wait.

Then, they did it again. Oops! Yes, the fuckers cut me off yesterday, leaving me in tears as I faced another three days without email or a telephone. They don't give a damn about the effects that their ineptness and incompetence causes – I think they rather enjoy it. Bastards. Luckily, I collared an engineer outside in the street and forced him to try to sort it out. I was fortunate – he was a great chap and obliged, and within two hours, I was back online and with a phone line that worked. He was, after all, a contractor and not a BT employee. If he had been a member of the BT sub-species, he'd have come out with a robotic response and forced me to pull his plug out, so to speak.

As for c). Hmm, well, out of curiosity, this afternoon I went to see a house nearby (not nice) and asked the estate agent to come back and value this place. We aren't thinking of moving (unless our dream home appears) and just wanted an idea of what we could get if we did wish to sell up.

The woman, however, was very familiar and kept telling me how I looked like her younger sister (is that a sales technique?!). Then, she took two phone calls interspersed with: "I keep wanting to tell you off, you look just like my sister. I can't look at you." I bet her sister wants to slap her silly. I bloody well did. It was hard enough looking at her nicotine-ravaged features. She repeated (again... yawn...) that she felt she wanted to tell me off as I showed her the door, so I told her, quite pleasantly (I'm far too nice), that I'd go elsewhere if she dared to do anything of the kind. Then – ugh – she pulled me to her Silk Cut-scented scrawny self and attempted to air-kiss me, saying, "Oh, you are just like my sister!" Bleurgh.

Service!

Had about five or six hours' kip, mainly thanks to a pair of earplugs. They do help a bit but don't shut out half as much noise as I would like shut out. I could still hear GFG doing something with cupboard doors and a hammer during the early hours, but my deep exhaustion and a couple of painkillers (plus the plugs) must have helped send me off for a while. I woke up about a dozen times but managed to get back to sleep. Cured? Nope. Jetlag blah de blah de blah... it only wore off during late afternoon. Pain is creeping up my shoulder blades now, at 18:42. Sometimes the earplugs slide out; on other nights they stay put and make my ears sore.

Still, my bank manager made me happy today. She responded to a complaint I'd made about poor service over a few visits to the local branch by asking me to meet her and explain what had happened. It was things like waiting to see a personal banker for half an hour only for the personal banker to do none of what I requested, and being quizzed on depositing cheques – as though I was a money launderer – that annoyed me. I don't mind being asked where money is from if it's an anti-fraud measure but I cannot be doing with thoughtless comments from cashiers who really should know better and ask me (after taking my money) whether I actually bank at the place.

So, it was good to speak to someone who genuinely seemed to care about the level of service given. She, like me, has bad service down as one of her personal bugbears. People will be spoken to, she said, assuring me that she would phone me with an update. I don't want anyone to lose their job (I have managed to get one person sacked due to unbelievable incompetence in a medical setting) but here a simple good talking to is in order.

Oh, I did praise the member of staff who is consistently efficient and helpful, and I'll praise the manager to her manager if things improve. Slightly worryingly, she told me that I am "a celebrity" in the bank now, and revealed that she had read out my letter to all her staff. Some will continue to be genuinely nice and others will be nice and secretly curse me. Hmm, my money helps pay their wages and they would do well to remember that...

After all that, it was nearly lunchtime so I drove down to the riverside, where I unshopped something unsuitable and and shopped a little bit more, only for small things, but they were enough to make me feel 'treated'. Yes, it's shallow stuff, but it was therapeutic for someone who couldn't bear to return to a desk and sit there in a heady fog. The fresh air – the weather was beautiful – did help to clear my head, and I managed to work productively, relatively speaking.