Sunday, 2 June 2013

Pass me the chicken soup.

So, the sun is shining, the birds are singing and on the surface, this can only mean one thing. A recipe for a successful day, in the north east. As anyone will know, it's a very rare occurrence that we get a visit from that big yellow thing in the sky, so when said holy day arrives, everyone is out in full-swing; happy smiling faces, sparsely dressed people, donning sandles and shorts and very occasionally, sunglasses. But, for me, that recipe just isn't hitting the spot. Why? I'm not feeling myself. In more sense than one.

I'll not give you an unnecessarily dull somewhat-psychological analysis of my state of mind, or any sort of morbid list of my medical symptoms of illness, as that's also pretty boring to read (I presume, I don't mean to insult anyone who may actually find my illness interesting, you total sadists.) Kidding, obviously. Cold-like symptoms in June. You're thinking WHAT? So am I. I am never usually unwell, so when I am, it really gets me down. As for the last few days, exhaustion has set in. I've been even more miserable and intolerant than usual, and increasingly anti-social (and I hate myself for that.) I'm bored to tears. I feel like I have had such high hopes for 'Summer 2013' for so long (hence the inverted commas for entitling!) that it was likely it would fall short of my expectations, and it hasn't even started yet. Not, completely, anyway. I know, this sounds dreadfully pessimistic, but as I have said on many occasions, I am a negative person by default, although I kind of hate that. I just don't think I'm making the most of the time I have, and hardly ever see my friends, due to their prior commitments or my refusal to appear second best or even last resort. I've been so moody lately, I'm sick of being in my own company, yet am somewhat comforted by it.

On a more positive note, I invested in my own Kindle the other day and have fell head-over-heels in love with it. I already have a few dozen titles on there, just sat on their literary haunches, waiting to be read. I can now proudly say I've not only just finished reading my first book on my Kindle, but one of the first books I actually couldn't put down, for first time in months. I love that. Discovering a book, or an author who writes such pure genius, with such wit, that you connect in a way that makes you grin. The said book is The Dinner by Herman Koch. I won't give much away, as spoilers are hideous and I'd hate to be reading a blog and the ending to be revealed in three short, quipping lines, like a comedy act gone wrong. Originally written in Dutch and then translated into English, The Dinner follows the story of two couples and their families, revolving around a dinner at a restaurant, one night. It's obviously, so much more than that. An international bestseller. Read it. You must. It's one of the most brilliant, witty, sarcastic pieces of literature I've ever feasted my eyes on, and will undoubtedly spend weeks spouting off about Koch's wonderful writing style.

So, I guess I best actually try and pull myself together. Sick of feeling sickly and blue. I think it's about time I loaded up on chicken soup, miracle cures and whacked on my best smile, even if it is false for a while. Because, eventually, I won't need the chicken soup. In time (hopefully soon) I'll feel better, and I'll be back to my old (well, nineteen year-old) self, happily pessimistic and a lot more sociable than I have been lately. Promise.

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