Everything, it seems, is going well. I've just heard that I've got a new job that I really wanted, a graduate traineeship in an archive . The D. B. has also got a job here to start in the autumn, has got top marks in his exams and seems cheerful at the moment (he suffers from OCD and clinical depression, so you can't take that for granted). I got back to my lowest weight last week. I have new shoes and an Ursula Le Guin book that I haven't read yet. Everything in the garden is lovely...
...but I'm sad today, with the sort of unspecified gloom that I used to feel as a teenager. Everything seems imbued with melancholy. I feel heavy and weary. The past few nights I've either had great difficulty getting to sleep, or have gone to bed unusually early and slept as deeply as if someone had drugged me. My dreams are disturbing: I accidentally smash the stone of my engagement ring to fragments (I'm sure Freud would have a field day there), or punch David Tennant in the face (what's he ever done to me?)
I'd attribute it to PMS were it not for the fact that I just had my period. Maybe the prospect of everything coming right at last is frightening, in a way: the excuses are gone; I'll have to stop being a child and really start living my life - see about mortgages and pensions and goodness knows what else. I want to (doesn't everyone who's still living at home post-university?) but it's a bit daunting all the same.
Or maybe it's just the weather. Edinburgh has been sulking and slouching beneath a low grey sky for days now. A fresh breeze, a bit of sunshine, and a day out somewhere would probably work wonders, but, alas, these don't come to order. I'm not the kind of person who usually spends the week longing for the weekend – it's wishing your life away, I always feel – but I won't be sorry when this one ends.