It’s official. I’m stressed. And ill. And majorly irritated by the non-stop rain outside. Nathan was poorly over the weekend, and I’m almost certain I now have what he had, which is currently manifesting itself in a sore throat, big glands, and an inability to do anything without feeling unbelievably ratty. Of course, the nonsense with Haringey council hasn’t helped matters, and it's possible that I managed to whip myself up into such a frenzy over the last few days that I've made myself ill. Obviously, it doesn’t help matters that I simply don’t know how to relax. Relaxing for me is sitting in front of the television whilst doing orchestrations, which is obviously a deeply unhealthy state of affairs! I’d love to be one of those people who can simply grind to a halt, put their feet up and disappear into a calm space, but the moment I stop, I start to think about all the other things I should be doing. The curse of being a freelancer, I assume. That, and officially not having any clothes without holes in them!
I had a meeting today in Old Street about another television project. If I could pay my rent by attending meetings alone, I’d never need to work again.
There’s little else to say. I got all the way into Highgate village this morning, and sat down with a lovely morning cuppa, before realising I needed to go back home to activate some software before I could do any work.
I met my new friend Keeley on the way back down the hill. She was with her 2 year-old daughter, who has just discovered the impact saying the word “no” firmly, loudly convincingly and very often can have. Ah, the joys of being taught to speak by a mother who's an actress. Dramarama.
One of my rats attacked me last night. It's not the first time he's done it, and it’s looking like we’re going to need to have him castrated. Nathan's been doing a lot of research about the psychology of rats, and it's a fascinating business. Pollux, who attacked me, is obviously the dominant rat and the risk is that, if he's castrated, the currently submissive, Castor, might start to show signs of aggression, and then need to be castrated himself. It's a dilemma. If we had them both done, they'd be Castrated Castor and Pollux no bollocks. Boom boom chink!
350 years ago, Pepys went to Huntingdon for the day, where he met some fancy country types including someone who went by the name of Jaspar Trice, who must have one of the coolest names in history. They discussed Uncle Robert’s will, and by all accounts the conversation was a fairly unsatisfactory one. In the afternoon, Pepys went into the town and drank with a whole gaggle of friends at a pub called The Crown til about 9pm. He walked home to Brampton - a half an hour's walking - and found his father in an ale house in the village, which was run by one Goody Gorum, which is another fabulous name. Pepys went to bed nursing his right hand, which had been stung, one assumes by a wasp.... a jasper... not Jaspar Trice. At least I hope Jaspar Trice wasn't a wasp. I think there are fewer wasps this year...