Atheist Rosaries and snuff.

Well, today I ate:

sultanas, oats and milk breakfast (350)
a plum (20)
a chicken wrap (400)
pasta and tuna with tomato (300)
sultanas and yoghurt (200)

So in the 1200s. Being in a play where I constantly worry about my acting, the standard of which languishes below that of my contemporaries, and my physical shape, which much can be said the same of, is doing good things for my eating patterns.

I tried on a dress today which was tight, but a jacket that I think has loosened slightly. My measurements are: 37-28-39. I hate, hate hate that my bust is smaller than my hips. That's not how a woman should be.

Anyway, atheist rosary. I wear a rosary in the play. It's a simple wooden thing with a metal cross tied to it. There are only thirty five beads, so it isn't a real one, but I adore it. It makes me feel safer when I have it hanging about my wrist; I loop it twice, and it feels as if it might fall off so I clutch the crucifix. It's something soothing to stroke. I decided that my character has only this and her daughter to keep her going; I will describe her life as if it's me:

This wood is warm, and he gave it to me, not that he believes at all in religion. The thing was that I could no longer hold his hand. My simple parochial bloom does not compare to worlds, worlds away. I found another hand to hold, but it never wrapped around mine in quite the same way, so I wrapped that warm wooden strand around it instead, knowing that the prayers I made were not for anything except my own reassurance.

My daughter, the one that he gave to me, she is beautiful. She isn't happy, poor dear. She's cold and strange, because she drowns her sorrows. She is that cross; made of cheap stuff, but infinitely precious. She is the only thing I can touch of his, his last reminder in her face. Me and he and her, we are all there. All warm wood and cold metal, in a house on a lake.