I admit it, by midday my mood curdled milk in a three-mile radius from the epicentre that was me. The reason for my mood was that one of the lecturers decided that he was going to butt into my studies.
No, he has no charge over me beyond being part of the staff, and thus on tenure with the right to order the lay-abouts about. He’s not in charge of my studies, or any of the group projects I’m involved in, or in anything relating to me.
No, it does not mean anything and will not have any impact on me, and I could rant in private about it to my real overseers who lent a sympathetic and empathetic ear. The worst could be flushed out of my system, but it left me in that mood, and that mood carried with me until I left.
And it evaporated when I stepped over the threshold because who is there but Mark with that funny bunny apron he has bought, and he leads me into our little kitchen. He sits me down, and he’s made rice and Stroganoff, and he’s made the table, and there’s wine and how could I be in a bad mood after that?
I’ve said it before. He’s my mood control Mark 1. I who can be so explosively upset or happy or angry rarely am any of that these days, because still, as soon as I look at him, he just makes me happy. Am I being soppy, pathetic, and a hopeless romantic for still feeling that?
I feel like I don’t tell him I love him often enough. Things just get in the way. The minutiae of our daily lives, the humdrum routine, presses us to act so nonchalantly sometimes. But I do love him. I do, I do, I do.
Then he does something like today, and I’m reduced to this ball of putty, and I have to write twee posts on my blog about it, or I’ll blow up or crack or burst, and he’d have to clean up.
Let me state that it is annoying when WP lets me publish posts that I have forgot to give a title.