Tomorrow could be boring

Droplets

1. Turns out Topiramate was a double-edged sword: it stopped daily headaches and significantly lessened the severity of migraine(s) of which I had two since starting the meds, but it also made me forgetful, dopey, sleepy and all the other 7 fucking dwarfs. Reviewing with doctor and trying others. Taking a weekend break from being human guinea pig.

2. I don't think it's just me being a fragrance snob - in fact, I have gone in reverse-snobbery direction in many ways since starting the perfumery course - but lately, all the new mainstream perfume releases have been dull at best or an offensively poor effort at worst. One recent "prestigeous" line-up smells like a cast of Lynx/Axe/Impulse rejects from the pile that the evaluators thought too thin, crass and synthetic for a body spray.

3. Tuulia, my gorgeous wonderful Finnish loooooooooong-time friend had a baby girl on 11th of September. I am very happy for the whole family. It seems so unreal. She's the first of our group of 3 Uni-friends to become a mother. Not the first from the extended group, it has to be said - we do keep in touch with others too. Timo and I are going to meet the new person and take a much-needed mini holiday to Finland in a couple of weeks.

4. I'm finally fully on the perfumery course-horse. The secret to this one seems to be that I must do some of it every single day, even if it's just a little bit. I was trying to schedule in half-days, afternoons, evenings and even whole days of "course time" and they didn't work out. But since I've been fitting in 1-3 study sessions per day I've finally found my rhythm.

5. Flat hasn't sold yet. I wish it did. Want to move before next year. Ideally before winter.

Booze, no shoes

I'm going to be a Judgy Judgerson now. Well, okay, again.

I was at my local garage-cum-supermarket just now, late, you know, after work, picking up some bread and so on. Queuing up. First, there's a smell. Unwashed smell, hobo smell. I turn to look and a woman in her mid fifties, with long, tatty, mid-brown hair tied up messily with a scrunchie waddles into view. She's wearing a yellow t-shirt with brown stains. Black joggypants, leather shoes with mud on. My first thought wasn't of any significance. Sadly, people have hard lives, hard circumstances and I could see her browsing the alcohol section and made my own conclusions.

Alas, then, a younger version of this woman (sporting a similarly stained blue two-piece - very much like pyjamas, in fact, and a pair of what-once-used-to-be white Winnie the Pooh slippers) came into view. She turned sideways and I saw that she was about 8 months pregnant. Buying alcohol. Now I became sickened.

But it got better.

A little girl with tangled blonde locks, very thin pink stripy pyjamas - and no shoes - ran to the two women. She called the Pooh-sandal one "mommy". "Mommy" went into a five minute hacking cough fit. Little pink stripey girl kept trying to get her attention, to no avail.

I stared. I couldn't help myself.

Let me get this straight. You're buying booze, 8 months pregnant, your little girl doesn't even have shoes, you obviously don't wear a coat, your mother hasn't washed herself since your daughter was born - and it's December 17th with minus 1 Celcius outside. Fantastic.

I hate to be judgemental when I don't even know the full circumstances in question, but I guess that's human nature. We judge each other. And I can't think of many things that would make me more angry than seeing someone favour hedonism over looking after a child.

'tis the season to... FREAK OUT!

Presents. Where's my personal Banker Gnome whose pocketsies I can rob?

Queues everywhere. When buying breadrolls and salad for lunch, I will start eating when I hit the queue and by the time I'll get to the cash register, it'll be time to poop it all out. I'll ask for a refund.

My relatives. A couple of years ago this would have been an oxymoron. Alas, I seem to have gained some from my father's side of the family who, up until recently, had been complete strangers and had taken no part in my life. They're treating me oddly, I think, considering we don't know each other. I'm the long-lost lamb and I am one of them. How nice. But does that mean I need to send Christmas cards? A parcel? Call on Christmas Eve?

Timo's relatives. His mother is lovely. We met for the first time last December and sadly, haven't been back since because she lives fairly far from us. It's not a day trip. I won't get any real holiday over Christmas, but Timo wants to (quite rightly) see his mum soon. He wants me to go along, but realises I can't. I feel guilty. One of Timo's brothers and his new girlfriend are coming over tomorrow. Originally, this was a casual invitation (by me), but it's now so close to Christmas (and there's the involvement of this new, yet-to-be-evaluated female, who could out-girlfriend me by bringing in presents for us - and panic! - we haven't got them anything yet). Timo said it was far too early to be giving presents. I don't think so! Four weeks to Christmas and this will be the one and only time we see these people before then.

Chores. The flat needs a clean and tidy. Because of the above and, erm, because it needs doing anyway (no, I will not admit to being one of those people who frantically cleans before visitors arrive). We need new, lined curtains. I still need to pick up my push bike, cherry tree and garden furniture from the old house. They might not even be there any more. I have piles of paper that need to be sorted out, but I can't face the task.

Not enough time to rest, or to do anything. Tomorrow is mine (and Timo's) only day off. Except of course it won't be the sort of day off where we get to sleep in, not get dressed and slob. It should turn out to be a lovely occasion and I am looking forward to it, but the flip-side is that both of us go back to work on Monday, just as tired as we were when we finished on Saturday. Not to mention that I have projects oozing out of my ears. I have an admirable collection of Things To Do on my list (in fact, personal revelation time: I haven't just got a things to do list; it's a whole notebook with dividers according to type. So things relating to creative pursuits are listed and prioritised in one section, matters relating to household chores in another, and so on).

In the evenings, I crash on the beanbag (no room for a sofa in the studio and the bed is not as comfy to sit on), check my emails, surf for a bit, maybe blog a bit, eat, watch TV in the background - and then it's already 10, or 11pm and if I have energy, I'll get something else done. I need about a week's worth of free time to accomplish everything I should, but that amount of free time is not available. Sleep deprivation only works on very short term. As it is, I only get 6 or so hours a night and I think I need over 7 to feel refreshed and 8 to feel good.

How do new parents do it? The sleep deprivation thing? I mean, you must end up putting your shoes in the fridge and the milk by the door when you come back home.

Hmm, that reminds me: my mother used to keep cigarettes in the fridge to stop them losing moisture. At the same time, I was into my black khol-phase of teenage rebellion and kept my eye pencil in the fridge too. There was, fairly certainly, a moment in time where our fridge at home had nothing but cigarettes and make-up.