mouthbreathing in aircon

When I started this blog about six weeks ago, I was in a happy place, and I wanted to connect with other positive, cheerful people. I made a personal editorial policy that this would, under no circumstances, become a place to vent frustrations or get angry. Everyone has quite enough on their own plates without me clambering up onto my high horse. But I'm afraid I need to break that rule. Thankfully the editor-in-chief can't sack me.

Boy, have I had a bugger of a week. My husband had to work some 24 hour shifts over a weekend, and I started to get sick. The streaming snots and sneezes. Mouthbreathing in aircon is misery, and mouthbreathing outdoors when it hovers around 30C and 80% humidity is not much better. Then there was a major safety issue in our apartment. To say that we are waging a mini "Erin Brockovich" style campaign from our coffee table kind of explains the situation. How this will end I don't know. Perhaps we'll go back to the UK over it (perhaps we'll get sent back!). Perhaps someone will grow a moral conscience and do the right thing. Whatever happens, it's exhausting. Someone taking liberties with my family's safety and then telling me that it is not their problem makes me feel helpless, like we don't matter. Like my child doesn't matter. It feels like a personal insult. I'm finding it very hard to keep any sense of perspective. I was feeling pretty homesick anyway, and now I'm just broken.

And then I heard Christmas music in a shopping mall this morning. I suspect you can imagine how much this pi$$ed me off. No ol' blue eyes, NOT THIS MORNING.

Amidst my phlegm and frustration, I've been trying desperately to throw myself into things I enjoy. But this may have backfired. In just one week I've nearly finished my Veera scarf. But I think I've ruined it in an invisible way. You know in Like Water for Chocolate how Tita infuses the food she cooks with her own emotions? Well, my scarf has been created out of rapid boiling maternal anger. The stitches are perfect and the colours just as beautiful as they were on the ball, but I think the piece as a whole is fuming with pent-up frustration.

On a more positive note, I've been trying to entertain The Boss with a very old copy of Little Old Mrs Pepperpot, a book that I absolutely adored when I was small. My mother-in-law dug this copy out of a long-forgotten bookshelf the last time we were in London. The binding has gone and we're having to handle it like a precious relic. Each time we open the browned pages, my girl takes a long deep sniff of the stale old paper, which she says smells like honey. And she proudly presented her favourite red ribbon for use as the bookmark. I'm trying to treasure the simplicity of a little girl having a favourite ribbon. But it's not easy this week.

When she asked why the book said 3'- on the cover, we started explaining about old money, and how Granny had bought this book a long time ago. With a look of amazement on her face she whispered in disbelief "does that mean that Granny was in the olden days?!". I can only imagine her visions of Granny buying three shilling books from all the pirates and pharaohs and dinosaurs that we've talked about in the context of the "olden days". Crikey, I bet she thinks that Granny's met the baby Jesus.

Linking along with the lovely Small things Yarn Along. I hope you, and they, can indulge and forgive me my rant. Will try not to do it again.