That is what happened last night. I don't care about the fight because we often talk abruptly to each other when we get annoyed, and it really doesn't mean much. But I got downhearted because I felt inadequite in the fitting itself. Of course, it is not easy to concentrate on something so demanding when you have somebody snapping at you, and at least this time I had a vague idea of what I should be doing. And I did it, but I still don't believe that what changes I have made are correct. I can't trust myself with it. All in all, after the fitting I felt I had taken a step backwards than forwards in making my sister a well-fitting bodice :( I felt like a failure. I still can't decide whether I should disregard the changes I've made, and continue drafting using the original sloper (which is the bodice as I drafted it, following the tried-and-tested formulas which, alas, may not -and do not, for that matter- fit my sister's body).
So I was sad when I went to bed. It was a mistake that we did the fitting that late in the night (it was already 2am at the time, and we were both fairly tired), but when you are pressed for time you have no real option. The whole event sort of reminded me of those nights in Oxford when I'd cry myself to sleep feeling horribly inadequite, because I was pressed for time and couldn't get through my weekly workload. I guess I should just aim to do as little as possible, and then I'll be a happy person! ;) A happy lazy person.
Bessy also came round last night, she needed to scan and email a document. Once we finished, we started on a website crawl, trying to spot pictures of particular people - friends from Oxford - that she's heard a lot about but has never seen. We got interrupted and chased away from the machine just as I had skirted Simon's website, one that I doubt I had seen before, and my curiosity couldn't be sustained.
I went back the following day and had a proper look around it, looked through a couple of pictures - I was reminded once more that some emotions do live as if they have a life of their own. Why should I get so emotional when I see his face? Given that we had such a violent, messed-up break up, and that it was my own "conscious" choice to move away from him, I shouldn't still melt at the sight of him. It's disconcerting not being able to get in the role of "the bitch" to the full extent.
Or is this just nostalgia for what you once had but have lost? Or is it the memory of the body, that triggers its own responses to the sight of the "beloved"? Or is it the signals that the brain gets from the recently amputated member? Ghosts, that's what ex-lovers are. They dwell in my thoughts like fleshless creatures that feed on feelings. I don't usually have any regard for the fact that these correspond to people still alive. I don't particularly like being reminded that either. I won't have it that we were once so close but ended up being strangers.
Here's to lovers that never part.