Once, I had a voice and I screamed.
Now, I have no more time to myself. I may not come often.
It will depend on the help I shall, may or might get – or not.
My life is now fully busy with The Girls.
Elder Girl is unmanageable because of her pathologies and because she hates me as I ask her to do things she does not want to do. The Younger follows the example of The Elder.
We have no hours.
They claimed for breakfast at eight this morning and went back to sleep in my arms until half pas twelve. I was lucky they remembered they already had their breakfast otherwise we would have taken another one. I washed and dressed The Elder. I cooked their lunch. I made the beds while they were having lunch. I wrote the shopping list. I drank a protein liquid, and tried to e-mail the finance advisor and the Head of the Agency in order to have a planning for November. I was interrupted many times and yet nobody was ready when the Shopping Lady arrived.
No shopping for me as I had no time to wash and dress … and eat. I am feeling like collapsing every time I move.
I tried to find a book in a card box but almost all fell down on my foot that is now swollen and blue, and I have no idea where the book is but a good idea where there is a spider nest
I wish The Girls were elsewhere but far away from me. I wish I were in my own life with my own things, my own flat, my own friends, music, museums, conferences, exhibitions, books, studies – my life.
I wish I had new books – I mean books I would have never read: dove grey Persephones, green (or not) Viragos, yellow Grey Ladies, those wonderful although never seen Golden Age Mystery books from the British Library, the Fox books and magazines, Mrs Thirkell (those I have not…).
I even wish I had Margery Sharp, Ms Hocking, and all these undervalued women writers, and Daphne Du Maurier (for whom my foot is swollen).
And I wish I had a great, good, strong bottle of whisky or other alcool, and get drunk.
Now, I have no voice left, but despair.