Typecast

I don't want to typecast myself. I'm more than a one-trick pony and this, I hope, will be more than a blog about my peevishness and inner rages, but to say that I have a bad temper just doesn't do me justice. I probably spend the majority of my time feeling annoyed in some way about something or someone. I range from mildly peevish to furious. I am slightly out of sorts on any average day. Beaming equanimity finds me about, well not often... perhaps a couple of times a year. It is a stroke of poetic justice that I suffer from an almost constantly irritated vagina.

Right now I'm spying on my neighbour, who is crouching in shorts over a disposable barbecue set out on the roof terrace between our flats. He's cooking burgers with squares of cheese and buns in a plume of chemical smoke. I note that if I did want to open my floor to ceiling windows right now I wouldn't be able to unless I wanted the smell of his burnt offerings to permeate my flat. I mean, it's freezing outside. He's finished cauterizing his cheap meat products and darted shivering back inside to eat. What would have been wrong with a grill? By the way, I'm not really cross right now, just noting an opening for some righteous vexation.

I think about why I'm starting this blog and why it might be different from the first blog I started. As well as being a wretch:

• I like writing about sex
• I am in a relationship with Virgil
• my work situation is not great
• and that Virgil and I are trying to have an open relationship

And that's where this particular story kicks off, because about a week ago Virgil came home late and in response to a direct question told me that he'd been on a date.