I’m suffering from performance anxiety. I’ve been feeling the pressure to write something FUNNY ever since I published Then The Dance Was Over about our wedding anniversary and made all my readers cry.
By the way, thanks for remembering our anniversary by destroying the dishwasher. I think you are starting to run out of electrical appliances now (at least I’m hoping). To compensate you brought me roses the next day, they were lovely.
My hairdresser says I have to stop blaming you for everything that’s going wrong ’cause you are not here to defend yourself. I don’t see why being dead should stop it all BEING YOUR FAULT. In fact I think it contributes to it all BEING YOUR FAULT.
You know how you always said I made your hair go grey? Well you got the last laugh, I virtually went grey overnight when you died. Not that elegant, stately grey you see on some women, but wiry, coarse sticking up grey strands all over the top of my head. TWO HOURS at the hairdresser to fix the problem. The hairdresser says most women come in every SIX WEEKS to get their hair coloured. Given he only sees me every six months he reckons this is going to be a challenge for me – do I hate being grey more than I hate going to the hairdresser? On the upside, only seeing me every six months means the hairdresser “gets a great sense of satisfaction” out of doing my hair. I give him so much to work with. By the way the new haircut and colour looks smokin’.
You would be surprised at the effort I’m going to look presentable when I leave the house. I even produced mornings today with a 6.30am start and I PUT ON MAKE-UP BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE. I know I’m shocking myself too. I think feeling so crap I’m trying to “put on a happy face” and that includes putting on the warpaint to face the world.
I’m afraid your departure has turned the blog into some sort of grief journal which is scary for us all. Although people are still commenting at times that I’m giving them a laugh. So in some curious twist of fate I seem to be writer of a humorous grief blog. A unique niche all of my own.
We made your special chicken sandwiches on the weekend, the ones that all the women used to rave about at my scrapbooking workshops. We struggled to remember the ingredients, I did consider popping into the psychic to see if she could get in touch with you for the recipe. See that would be really helpful if we could just “call you up” now and then for the important stuff like what the hell did you put in those sandwiches. Hippie Child gave it a good stab, with chicken, cheese, sour cream, lemon and chives. We argued about the chives, I thought it used to be shallots but both girls said chives. Did we forget anything else?
So anyway must head off now, alarm set for 5.30am for another early morning start. I don’t think I’ve cracked the funny in a big way tonight but at least I’ve beaten the writer’s block of only thinking up only miserable things to write about. Who knew writing to your deceased husband could be cathartic and even mildly amusing?