Hungover. (This seems to be an excessively recurrent state lately.) Last night the pub (not ours) was packed with golfers, fresh from day one of the annual local tournament, live country music filtering in from the garden and young wans in tracksuits drifting in and out after the crowning of the winner in the local "Lovely Girls" competition in the community centre. Father G ("Call me John") joined us at the bar: it was an impromptu reunion of The Holy Show. The husband of course was up to no good. He wanted to discuss canon law with Father G: "If a person copulated with a horse and a child resulted from this union, would you baptise this child?" Jaysus. Des rolled his eyes. Father G ignored the husband and winked at me, "When's the next table quiz?"

Well, the past few days have been ridiculous on my part: drinking too much, popping pills (okay, two Nurofen Plus in the morning and one before bed at night), moping too much, and arguing with the husband. I fall behind on research. I did not write a poem for yesterday's poets' society meeting. I don't read or write at all. Last night after the Holy Show reunion, we shout at each other in the kitchen, knives out, poor Sam cowering under the table. We notice, feel remorse, pet the dog, make up. In the morning, as the husband and I embrace, he says "Do you love me? Do you really love me?" That it has come to that shows how much of a dick I've been lately. Afterwards, I tell myself: This is nothing in the scheme of things. Like, hello, the world is literally burning?! Get a fecking hold of yourself, dude!

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