And lo, it came to pass. And it passed. And Christmas became bearable, and then quite cheerful. And there was peace on earth and goodwill to humankind once more. And my sister said she needed to think about the very long letter I wrote to her, the one where I spell out that it's okay to be disabled. And that's progress, believe me. She's thinking. I'm very glad.
You really have my aunt and uncle to thank for this dramatic turnaround in mood (oh, and the fact that I can hold on to a mood at present about as well as an eel in a fast flowing river).
We went to Wiltshire, where naked gardeners live and pigs go on the run from the slaughterhouse. My aunt and uncle are musical types there and are very good at looking after guests, whatever state they arrive in.
My bile was evaporated by good cheer, small acts of kindness (the tea that arrived silently next to my bed when I had all but passed out after finding the journey too much...the Chopin placed on the piano to encourage me to play, alas to no avail but it was the thought) and the large quantities of cordon bleu standard cooking.
It was 24 hours of contentment. And much appreciated. Sadly I am now back in the Midlands. Had I remembered earlier in the week that I was going to Wiltshire, I may never have written Christmas is Bollocks. Which in a way would have been a shame, as I have been humming it on and off in a private joke sort of way. And anyway, I feel that life would be very boring if it were as perfect as life in Wiltshire seems to be all the time. Which is, of course, a complete illusion as my aunt and uncle have just as much to put up with as the rest of us. It's just that they do it in very lovely surroundings.
So yes, for the time being my edges have been softened. And I can daydream about my escape from this complete shithole to delay the return of despondency.