9.15 am ( sat on the sofa in the front room)

It all feels pointless. This seems pointless. I have toiled and laboured and maintained this project and now it is almost done, it feels disappointing and pointless. Yet if I have a day when I don’t manage to write I feel that I am floating. Floating in meaningless.

I have been eating and drinking too much. I don’t feel at all well. The perpetual rain. The nothingness. Trying to find meaning in my pointlessness.

The tree that P has bought in from the allotment stands tall in the corner of the front room, decorated with owls and robins and penguins and paper stars and angels that the children have made.

Yesterday I bought a few small gifts for my nieces and nephews. I only buy gifts for the children. Christmas is for them not us. All the flood sirens went off, Walsden, Todmorden, Hebden Bridge. We got back by driving over the top road. The road down was a river, dangerous and slippy and steep.

I have become slow, slow, slow. The year is almost up. We made a recording of Naoise singing Silent Night and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer for the grandparents. I like to make things. I like to beat the capitalist christmas. Peace and love and goodwill to all mankind.

The garage did’nt charge me for sorting out the car doors that were jammed with seat belts. It was such a relief, I had wondered where I would find the money to pay for car maintenance a couple of weeks before christmas. I am not prepared for this seasonal time of year. I am behind. Behind.

Naoise is snoozing in bed. P is snoozing in bed. Must get on and prepare something, must not give in to my depression. Weak, no energy, pointless. Pointless.

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