Good Grief 276

What a weird business. I don't really get it. I might have already said that.
The body echoes.
During the week I've been getting home from work and trying to find things. I'm being dreadfully scatty. Flitting from thing to thing. Losing odds and sods. But most of all I've been trying to find the notebook I kept at the end. All the notes I had to keep - details of stuff at the hospital, a log of everything and then, afterwards, lists of stuff to do and organise and notes of how I was feeling. Why on earth I should need it now heaven only knows. I reasoned that I was agitated anyway so may as well just damn well try and find it but had no luck in the week.
I found it today. I'd been trying to get on with other jobs but hopped from painting to hoovering, to cleaning, to shopping to the garden and back and eventually started on papers and then found the notebook.
I've just read what I put for 5 years ago today ... 'more sympathy cards dropped on the door mat like lead on daisies ...'.
I just haven't been able to focus on anything today and there are half done jobs all over the place and I couldn't think of anywhere to go or anything to do and whatever I did think of I didn't seem capable of initiating. I took the van out, drove round the block, came back, had a cup of tea, went out again, took things to the tip, cleaned it a bit, went back to the tip, went to the shops, back home, jumped on the bike to dissipate some of this weirdness. All in all, a bit of a mad phase. Mad and moonly.