Day 235: The sleet and the mud

Oof, feel bleak, and I don’t want to write a word. This happens to me, I feel depression coming on and I write a post about it as if I had it dealt with, had something figured out, and then the next day it is there and worse again, and the day after worse than that.

I really don’t want to have to write right now. I’m tired and I’m glum.

I had a good evening though. It was good, wasn’t it? I met Steve and Alan after work and it was like old times, nights out drinking years ago. I had three non-alcoholic beers, then a Pepsi, then I had a third of beer, just as a Christmas treat with old friends. Shhh. Anyway, we laughed a lot, we talked a lot, we talked about when we were kids, we talked about Alan being a father, we talked about politics and parents with cancer and love and about dumb, stupid things. It was sad, and funny, and good. It was a good night.

Now I am home and feeling flat. I missed tea, didn’t even think about it, because I went from a busy, stressful shift to standing on the other side of the bar with Alan and Steve, and then six hours had gone by. And I missed lunch, because it was a busy, stressful shift. Just had a bowl of cereal now when I came in. No energy to make anything more.

I’m OK. I feel flat but that is OK. I don’t have much to write, but I can’t switch on my writing brain at will. I turn up, and sometimes it’s there, sometimes it’s not. There are days when you score goals from the halfway line, and days when you grind out nil-nil draws in the sleet and the mud. But you turn up to every match regardless.

Even if I had a year’s worth of nil-nil draws, or of stinging losses, it would still be a beautiful and worthwhile achievement to have played them all. And I don’t, I’ve got plenty of winners in here among the rest.

And I’m proud of them all. Proud to be playing, day after day after day.

That’s all the victory I need.

……

Music: Vessel of Love by Hollie Cook - some insouciant, sun-kissed reggae pop to bring the evening to a close. Lovely.