Thank God for Starbucks.

Am still stuck at the parents recuperating under doctors orders.

The novelty of not being able to do anything wore off after approximately two days. The novelty of being thrown back into the mechanics of the family dynamics wore off after. . . well, actually the fear of being thrown back into it started in hospital, after my Father's one and only visit.

You know those families that all pull together in a crisis? Mine is not one of them. We argue. We storm off. Well my Father does, at any rate.
My Father and I have always had a tempestuous relationship. I put this mostly down to the fact that I don't think he likes women.
We can get on for a few hours here and there, but not, I fear, in a normal 'father-daughter' way. The ingredients of us 'getting on', is usually a mixture of a huge consumption of alcohol on my part, mixed with an unhealthy dose of my Father bringing up all of my flaws (physical, mental, and what will have you). Funny for all of five minutes.
He is a very strange man: I'm yet to work him out, and I have come to the conclusion that I probably never will.
I believe some men were born to be Fathers, and some weren't. I believe mine wasn't born to be one. It's no insult, just the truth. He's not great at it. He's great at business. I'm reminded by this more and more the longer I am at home.

I'm frustrated by a lot at the moment.

The conditions of my leaving hospital included: not driving for a month, taking a minimum of six weeks off from everything life has to offer, and most importantly "resting". Upon hearing these words, I remember being secretly quite pleased. (Sometimes) annoyingly, I'm one of those people who usually has to be doing something -I've never been a big fan of spare time, and could count the amount of 'lay ins' I've ever had on one hand.
I've needed to slow down for a long time but being the way I am, there was no way I would ever give myself such orders. So, I felt quite pleased to relinquish control to someone else. Didn't last long though. I think I'm slowly going insane.

I have not driven in 13 days and counting. I have another three weeks of not driving to go. Due to the fact that my parents house is situated in a village, my only possibility of seeing any light of day would be to hobble around a corn field, or something.
Then of course, you have the obvious fact that everyone is at work in the day, which therefore means I am alone in the said house. All day. Boredom's a funny thing: It makes you do funny things; it makes you behave most peculiarly.
It's made me watch Loose Women (I cannot stand Loose Women). It's had me go through my entire list of contacts on my mobile phone, editing those that did not have capitals in the right places: "kate Home" has now been replaced with "Kate Home". Important stuff you realise.

It's hard finding things to do here, and I'm fast running out:

I've painted shaped, buffed, and filed my nails - this was over quite quickly: perhaps due to the fact that I bite my nails.
I've sorted my underwear drawer out: an eye opener. For someone who has never really seen the appeal of the thong, I seem to own rather a lot of the the things. Also, must try to make more of an effort to wear matching underwear, as can never rule out being run over by bus.
I've organised my collection of Vogues by the month they were published.
I've paid off all my store cards (don't ask).
I've watched every episode of Sex and The City - It would appear Mr.Big is actually Ex-boy in disguise.
I've read my book.
I've drank endless cups of tea - strong, with no sugar.
I've mastered Pachelbel's Canon in D major on the piano, and have subsequently driven my cats insane - also tried to master Bee Gee's How Deep Is Your Love. No such luck yet.
Lastly, I have managed to eat the most disgusting amount of Thornton's chocolates - Why does everyone buy me chocolates? They will not want me as a friend when I am morbidly obese.

The funniest thing I've noticed, is that each day I have been held here against my will, I have still woken and showered at an insanely inhumane time; as if my day has some sort of purpose to it. Clearly it doesn't. My days purpose is to "rest". I'm meant to be "resting" to feel better. Yet "rest" is driving me insane.

Yesterday was particularly depressing.
Upon moving to Southampton a couple of months ago, I discovered a friend of a good friends attended my uni. To make me feel welcome in my new home, he kindly invited me to a party he was having at his house for Halloween. Very nice of him. Even nicer was that my lovely group of friends were going to get time off from work to join the fun.
Yesterday then, saw said lovely group of friends travelling down to Southampton, without me, to attend the party. Two of said lovely group however, did sweetly come to see me on their way down. It took every fibre of my being, when they left, not to jump in the boot of their car, and go with them. In sheer desperation, after I said goodbye, I decided it would be a good idea to try and reacquaint myself with the world again. Unable to deal with public transport in my sorry state (this, and the fact that buses frequent my village just the once every week) I accepted the offer of a lift into Oxford with the Mother.
It's funny what being holed up as a prisoner for so long does to you.

Walking very slowly and gingerly around Oxford, I found myself taking in the Autumn air, and listening to peoples laughter as they jostled past me. I found a passage way previously undiscovered, on a street I must have walked a thousand times. After clean, country air being the only thing to inhabit to my lungs in the last two weeks, the scent of fumes and people smoking was a very welcome, if slightly unexpected pleasure.
It was quite nice: the scenery that I'd played character to for the last 21 years, suddenly looked wholly different. Paradoxically beautiful, and melancholy; in that moment I felt the world around me slowing down. Only, that was, until I nearly had an orgasm when I saw a Starbucks sign. If ever something tasted of normality, it was a sickly, saccharine frappucino. As I swallowed the icy, caramel, caffeine from the green straw, I remembered the role it used to play in my life:
A boost of much needed energy, whilst on marathon shopping sessions with girlfriends.
A topic of debate: should Starbucks still serve them in Winter months? Yes, I believed they should. Eager to demonstrate this point, and that the frap was not just a one-trick pony - reserved only to be enjoyed to its full capacity in the Summer months - I once set myself the task of standing outside, in the snow, whilst drinking one. I of course lost the argument, when I returned to the warmth of the coffee house with near frost bitten fingers.
Then of course, there were the times I'd consumed them on every break I'd ever had at my old job. This was however only until I realised that each cup contained close to 400 calories. Therefore meaning that my two a day habit (three on a hormonally challenged day) was giving me close to my recommended total calorie intake for the day. I found this news most upsetting, as I'd previously, genuinely had no idea how I'd managed to put on half a stone in the last couple of months of working at said job.
With sweet memories beginning to stir inside me, the drink was just the jolt I needed to remind me that I will get better, and I will get my life back, and that in no time at all, it will once again be Christmas, and once again, I will no doubt be found drinking one in the snow.
After a very depressing month it was a good jolt.