Some days I just am, a crosspatch that is. Don’t be a crosspatch, my mother would say. I don’t know why or perhaps I do but the investigation is too uncomfortable. I just am cross. Cross with myself, so much so that nothing ends up feeling right. Poor love, and he has to put up with it. Stop frowning, he says.
We had a row at breakfast. Well, it’s never a full-blown fracas, more of a falling-out. It doesn’t last. We talk about it, but the residue is there. It is me. What do I want? I don’t know. To feel better about myself?
We went into town early so that I could draw before my appointment. It is never the same. It is too safe really, with him. I prefer to be out and exposed and free.
I am scared, that is the nub of it. The work, the real work, the earn money and feel better about oneself kind of work, has dried up and I am adrift. Yes, I have lots to do there is my drawing, my sewing, my writing, my reading and all those domestic chores that pay my way, but nothing from outside of me that will put money in my dwindling bank account. And I don’t know what to do about it. Beg? He says not to worry, that we have enough. But I don’t believe him, am scared to rest too heavy on his resources. Will anything come? Will it?
