Anger

According to Ms Hay’s book the middle finger represents anger or irritability and an infection there doubly so. And yet. And yet, am I angry? I feel detached from it, if I am. And if I am what about? Yes, I get irritable now and again, but it soon passes. I don’t have the powerful feelings I used to have as a youth, at least I’m not aware of them any more. Things don’t bubble up, burst forth like they used to. Or perhaps I am better at smothering them, hence the infection, which I may say is very sore. I had to succumb to antibiotics. Ugh, I hate taking them, though I know that they, penicillin more specifically, have saved many lives. And they are not vegan. What am I to do? The nurse says I have no choice that the infection may spread to the knuckle. I am caught between a rock and a hard place.

She was lovely again. It was bliss lying there have my feet done, warm, smelling of hemp cream and drifting in and out of consciousness. I feel safe with her. There is a roundedness to her, a centredness to her and she too has her trials. I can see it.

Do I have it? Will I die? It moves further away, away from my grasp of reality. Everything is shifting, nothing is solid, nothing is certain anymore. A quick clean of the house and it tires me out. Then work. Then home. She answered today, in a rush because Country Cars is coming to collect her at 9.45 to take her to Lampeter. She sounds a little excited, thrilled at her new adventurous spirit. Bless her. Little triumphs to some, huge one to others. I know this kind of woman. I read of Fanny in Mansfield Park and know her too. More than I realised. Her ambitions are small, her need for quiet and an ordered household immense. Coffee begins to taste good again. But still all is not quite well. Will we have to wait long to know for sure?