Twelve Days in the Year: 27 July 2023

Woke some time in the small hours choking on phlegm; it seems very unfair that, having spent most of last week struggling through a really nasty summer cold, I seem to be coming straight down with another one, despite copious consumption of fruit and vegetables. Perhaps it’s a judgement for giving away so many courgettes because A. was bored of courgettes for supper. Perhaps it’s psychosomatic, giving me an excuse for failure to make much progress with the book. Managed to get back to sleep until around five, when Hans started his routine of prowling, grumbling, making strange scraping noises to suggest that he might have pissed somewhere, and rattling the food bowl. Eventually he settled down again, stretching out all along my spine with his tail swiping the backs of my thighs – at which point the alarm went. Washed dishes, cleaned up assorted bits of poo – reminding myself that cats dropping poo round the house is better than cats having to have expensive operations to deal with constipation – and made tea.

It’s got to the point where I’d really rather not hear any news in the morning; the radio is full of nonsense about the fuss over Farage losing his Coutts account (it does feel like a combination of appeasement and bandwagon jumping; the idea that he is somehow the Voice of the Real People and therefore a vital political figure, which gave him a media voice far in excess of his actual support, persists even though he has no party). And the serious press is full of terrifying stories about global heating and its consequences – along with perfectly reasonably articles about why we mustn’t be doomers, but it is hard because it’s terrifying, and the pitiful response of governments – even those that aren’t a hapless dead-man-walking clown show – offers no hope. Maybe one should start believing in the possibility of technologically-advanced aliens: We surrender! Now please help!

It’s all too obvious in the garden, where anomalous weather patterns are now standard; after an absurdly hot and dry June, we’ve had a chilly and wet July. The great advantage of having it this way round, from an entirely selfish point of view, is that most plants are well established, so it’s not as if I’d have too much to do this month except pick and water – and the watering is being done for me, apart from the greenhouse. Not clear yet whether this is going to affect the squash and pumpkin setting fruit – there aren’t a lot of pollinating insects around – but otherwise it’s only the aubergines and the basil that are really sulking.

Today was supposed to be a writing day (and this post doesn’t really count), but I have plenty of miscellaneous tasks to get on with in the hope that my head might start to clear a bit: taking spare courgettes round to a neighbour, delivering last batch of Green Party leaflets for forthcoming county council election (candidate is someone I know, and a very active local figure, so there must be at least a chance), buying ingredients for supper, setting up new broadband router, writing student references, updating module handbooks for next year, completing the handover of Journal of Roman Studies Reviews Editor duties to me for the next three years… Oh look, it’s lunchtime already. Quick meal of egg-fried rice and some fruit, catch up on cricket score, washing up, short nap in the hope this will help.

The nap had no effect on my head, so after half an hour of staring blankly at the screen wondering where all my words had gone and whether they would ever return, I used the afternoon instead to review someone else’s words, checking a corrected dissertation – which had to be done some time, so this gets it out of the way and doesn’t really count as procrastination. Miscellaneous emails, mostly about reviews, plus one from the university about professorial salary review, which they have switched from Everyone Must Be Judged to Make A Case For More Money If You Dare; since at the moment I dread the possibility of being told that I am not even performing satisfactorily, I am entirely in favour of not having to volunteer for consideration until I have a bit more self-confidence and documented achievements (like getting the book finished). Completed the first part of the dissertation task (external’s corrections) while also making a ragu for supper.

An extremely quiet, dull evening. I’m going to take heart from the fact that Christa Wolf regularly spent her evenings watching middle-of-the-road Krimis, and admit that a substantial portion of the time was spent watching old episodes of MASH, as being undemanding and comforting. We are unfortunately now into season four, so missing both Henry Blake and Trapper John. What strikes me, since I last watched any episode – twenty years ago, maybe? – is how often you can vaguely recognise guest actors, and then look them up on IMDb. Loudon Wainwright! Emma the housekeeper from White Christmas! It’s just like watching old episodes of The Avengers and spotting minor characters from Dad’s Army or other sitcoms, only for Hollywood.

Remembered to collect some lupin seed pods from the wild garden and bring them indoors – the ones I’d left in the greenhouse to dry off earlier in the week had been opened and pillaged, presumably by some small rodent – and then to bed just after nine. A. says that we’ve become old after COVID; I feel faded and generally wrung out, like a cheap margarine spread over too much bread, and without any magic ring to compensate. A couple of killer sudoku, lights out. Drifted off immediately – and then woke a few hours later with scratchy throat and phlegm. Hans as ever realised I was awake and started demanding attention, headbutting my hand for tickles, curling up next to me for five minutes purring loudly and then getting up to prowl around again. Not at all clear what he wants at times like this; he’s got plenty of food. He even managed to turn the alarm clock off. I doze, wondering if it’s symptomatic that I don’t seem to be able to daydream at the moment, without heading off into work anxiety. Time passes.