The black hole to which I refer is the Game of Thrones black hole. If I were to write this post like the second (??) Twilight book, where the insipid Bella Swan spends several months moping over the sudden departure of Edward Cullen, you would scroll down, and down, and down, and it would say "Thursday: Game of Thrones.... Friday: Game of Thrones... Saturday: Game of Thrones..."
Day 10 was Saturday, and thank heavens above that I finished Season 2, because I was getting very little else done with my time! Except, of course, cutting some laps (I couldn't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure I did 40 yesterday, or 3km, both yesterday and today), and also reading Catcher in the Rye in between visitors.
I did pretty well on the visitors front, too - had a visit from someone I'd corresponded with quite a bit but never met before, and was pleased to discover we got along as articulately in person as we do in writing; my national manager dropped by with a copy of one of the novels he has written (not as narcissistic as it sounds - I kind of requested it via another workmate); and my brother came and took me downstairs for some fresh air and sunlight for the first time in eleven days of captivity in the hospital. FREEEEEEDOMMMMMMMMMMMM!!! It recharged me more than you can imagine, so it would seem that this tree-hugger is so darned green that she's solar powered ;)
Today, with no more Game of Thrones in my life (for now - I have someone bringing me Season 3 later in the week. Yippee!), I polished off The Catcher in the Rye, and I have to say I'm at a bit of a loss as to why it's such a classic. I kept waiting and waiting for a punchline or a huge plot twist that would really make me think... aaaaand nothing. It occurred to me that the protagonist was writing from a mental hospital, given he alluded to being "in here" and also mentioned seeing a psychoanalyst, which I imagine were not commonly found in general hospitals in the 1950s. But that wasn't exactly a plot twist, because the guy is a bit of an angsty nutjob the whole way through. So I'm kind of at a loss. Perhaps if I had first read it as a teenager fighting to find their place in the world, or had ever been a teenaged boy, I may have been more able to identify with it. As it was, I did not.
My mum and BFF Ness visited (and brought with them some new PJs - yay!); later on my friend Al came to drop off a book a friend had posted for me to read and also took me downstairs to recharge my solar batteries; and a workmate came to drop off some earplugs I had requested. Her timing was impeccable, because, as I type this, with the keyboard click-click-clicking away, and the earphones in as I watch Downton Abbey, I can hear a patient in an adjacent room attempting to inhale their soft palate. Snores rumbling down the hallways, loud and clear. I imagine their roomate is feeling somewhat homicidal, and I hope that closing my door will block it out well enough for me to not need ear plugs.... but I suspect I will hope in vain.
Lastly, someone suggested that I post Pyjama Selfies to document my awesome collection of nightwear. Don't worry, I'll keep it tasteful ;) Also? Heads up - I wear the same PJs two days/nights running. Compared to my 27-day streak of wearing the same pair of jeans without washing them whilst backpacking through a European winter several years ago, my PJs are positively squeaky clean! This is my awesome, dinosaur pair. I know you're jealous ;)