When I first started a diary, at about 11 years of age, I would meticulously record all the small details of my everyday life. As time passed, I kept on writing, but grew out of this habit, focusing more on the emotional side of things; nevertheless, every now and then, especially after long lapses in writing, I would try to document all in a roughly chronological order. To the best of my knowledge, there is only one person who read that (apart form myself of course), and she never gave an opinion on what kind of reading it was, for which I’m eternally grateful. Then again, even if I still write that way for my own personal purposes, I have this rather strong idea that chronological and factual are essentially boring from the outside.
I’ve been back to Brussels for a week. I cleaned the flat, but failed to put away my things, meaning I’m living out of several suitcases, each of which does not contain the object I’m looking for. I still don’t have dishes: when I had to boil some water I had to resort to the lower part of my mocca, but as of today I have at least a set of plates and mugs I picked up this afternoon, second-hand. I got an iron for free with them.
Having forgotten most my French while at home, I decided to go to the Monday French conversation table. I left work; I went to a nearby place to have some dinner (some soup, more precisely), but it was closed; I went to another, but it was also closed; I managed to have my soup in a third one. Then I caught a bus; I got off at an unknown station to catch my connection and promptly got on the bus going the opposite direction; I got off, got on the correct one, but missed my stop. I was on the verge of going home, but decided against it: it did not seem a good idea to come home to an empty but chaotic flat, where I could not even make a tea, in such a bad mood. That’s all good and well, but once I arrived, I lost track of time and caught it again only around 11pm. Even so, I woke up before 6am the next day. Don’t ask.
Said next day I had dance rehearsal after work; the day after, Wednesday, is may standard of getting-home-late, having a double dance class from 6 to 8 and then another one until 10pm. I got Thursday an Friday off, so that I could get some furniture and settle in. I tried.
On Thursday, I ventured out to this second-hand furniture shop just round the corner. I spent about 2 hours in there, but didn’t find anything interesting apart from a shelf I’ve bought since then but still have no idea how I’ll manage to transport it home. After that, I went to get some lunch – some soup again, and you’ll realise it’s important, for by the time I finished with that, I was feeling so bad I decided to come back home, then slept through the whole afternoon. On Friday, I wen’t to see the doctor.
I’m somewhat better now, but I still don’t know how I’ll manage to both get better and at least the settling-in part of my rather intimidating list.
They say if you have too much of something, you become less and less sensitive of it. I guess I’ve long past developed that kind of tolerance to increased life rhythms.