The arm, the dream, the weekend

The right arm is still very, very angry. But the ice treatment helps, especially since I improved it: instead of ice I'm using a dish cloth soaked in concentrated salt-water solution and put into the freezer. Instead of a mere 0° it's much colder -- 5 minutes on the hurting muscle, then 10 minutes off, repeat at least five times to stimulate circulation. It actually works, i.e. if I don't play much, don't do serves for a week and play mostly backhand, the arm ought to be ok. If it isn't, I'm going to go for the cortison shot this time, because the problem wasn't brought about by something I do continuously but merely by playing two hours with too heavy rackets.  
Despite the protesting arm, yesterday's double with Pinar, Stefanie and Valentina was great. Much less stress than the doubles we played with Mr H, and far less competitive, given that it was only us girls wanting to have fun.

Speaking of Mr H, I dreamed about him last night (first time ever): in the dream he told me that he was sure now who had done all this to him -- he named a guy from my ministry, who, even if he had anything to do with [...] matters, would be the least likely culprit on earth. It seemed to make complete sense in the dream, though, and I was full of righteous indignation.

After today's [...] briefing -- and may god have mercy on Mr H if he dares even to raise a disapproving eyebrow in my direction -- I'm going to pay a visit to Lola Stola (nickname due to wondrously silky black fur), after which I have an appointment with the eye doctor. My left eye has grown a bit weaker (1 dioptry instead of 0,5), so I need him to measure the eyes in order to get my glasses changed, and *cue fanfare* get contact lenses for tennis. I'm all against wearing lenses -- for no logical reason the thought makes me uncomfortable -- but I can't play wearing glasses, and I want to see the effing ball clearly. So it's going to be lenses.

The weekend was unsurprisingly unspectacular, but I spent more than two hours yesterday with Lola Stola, and we both enjoyed it a lot. Considering that I did a lot, but no more than the usual amount, of exercise, the physical tiredness I'm feeling must be due to PMS. However, I prefer tiredness to being downcast and depressed. I'm just not accustomed to my muscles feeling as if I'd climbed the Vodno twice in one day, not unless I really overexercised, that is. Never mind, it's going to be over soon.

Oh, and I finally got round to doing mani- and pedicure yesterday, because Stefanie offered to take over the evening visit to Lola Stola. So my feet are finally presentable again, and my hands look civilized. Playing a lot of tennis, BTW, is *not* conducive to having well-groomed hands. The calluses on the right thumb and index finger are unavoidable, and unfortunately one can't get completely rid of them, because the too-thin skin would blister. Luckily I wear my nails extremely short and without varnish, a look that does rather well with the calluses...

OK, have to get started with the quarterly report now. And [...] briefing starts at 9.30. Keep your fingers crossed for Mr H not accusing me of vile betrayal because I didn't accept his dinner invitation on Friday. If he's stupid enough to mention anything, he might get to see a wholly new side of me.

Bloody stupid dilemma

Do I like dilemmas? No I don't.
Eleni, my Greek colleague, called me this morning to tell me that there will be an "informal farewell party, or maybe rather a gathering of people who are kind of Mr H's friends" tonight at 8. She didn't know who's organizing it.
I'll be playing tennis from 5 to 6, then I have to visit Lola Stola. This means I won't be home before 7.45 or 8, will have to shower and change and couldn't arrive at the mysterious event before 9 p.m. And I don't feel overly inclined to go.
OTOH, it would be a nice gesture.
OTOH, I really don't need to hear the story of Mr H's woes again.
OTOH, I wouldn't like people to comment on my absence behind my back. (trust me, they will)
OTOH, the invitation sounded so *strange*. I mean, who's organizing it? I'd rather be invited by the organizer, not someone who has allegedly been told to invite me. And if this is Mr H's fangirl club, I'd rather not be part of it (never mind that I used to be, which is probably why I don't want to be now)

Insightful comments are most welcome.

(Fitting, isn't it, that even his leaving should be causing me a headache)
(Nobody knows whether he's been sacked or his contract hasn't been extended. As a matter of fact, many people don't even know he's leaving -- e.g. Pinar was rather surprised)
Bugger.