It's strangely quiet in the house. In the living room I can hear the wind wooshing around in the courtyard, playing with the rubber plants downstairs. In the bedroom I can hear the cars on the street outside wooshing, no, wishing they wooshed, drivers beeping at each other during their weekly journey to get as far as possible from the city, into the suburbs and beyond.
It's one of those days; it's raining, there's nothing on tv and my teeth hurt. Nothing seems to taste as it should. There's tons of things to do but I don't feel like doing any of them, it all feels so futile. So I just sit here and listen to the wooshing. Of the wind. Of the cars.
I wish I had a cat.
I didn't feel like cooking so I ate a curry for dinner; instead of making me feel better it made me feel fat and unhealthy and now I have a piece of chicken stuck between those teeth that have been hurting me already to begin with. On a day like this I would normally curl up in bed with a good book but there is scarcely anything more distracting and annoying than the sound of Friday evening traffic, so that's not going to happen.
All that is left is to put on some Preisner's "Requiem for my friend" and wallow in self pity - at least for the next few hours, before T comes home.