Collapsed

I’m off work in a state of disrepair. Exhaustion says the kindly doctor who, considering she’s only eleven, appears to have accumulated a wealth of experience for one of such tender years. Her prescribed remedy is to sleep and read as much as possible and see friends often. Good grief! I had no idea they offered qualifications in common sense these days. My perspective of the NHS could be in danger of changing at this rate. Sleeping and reading can both be done in bed and finally I am nearly at the end of Great Expectations. Previously, I had none of these myself but now there is a distinct possibility that I may actually finish this tome and move onto the next in the pile that, happily, awaits my attention.

Being in a state of collapse means that I have discovered that my aspirations and expectations were not as complicated and unachievable as I had imagined. Kindly and well-meaning friends and family have suggested a number of solutions ranging from selling my house to purchasing a gigolo. With regard to the latter, a more prosaic companion pointed out that I wouldn’t want this unknown being rolling around on my new carpet. Spot on! Can’t think of anything worse; especially if I was expected to roll around with him. Far better to know that, at least for a few precious days and nights, I can go to bed when I want, be that at seven o clock or after midnight, and arise when I want. And, having got up, go swimming or go back to bed if I choose. It’s too simple.

Here’s another strange thing: you might think that being down in the dumps means my house is also in a state of disrepair. Let me tell you, it’s never been so spotless. You know that old adage….if you want something done, ask a busy person….what a load of rubbish: a busy person drags themselves in from work, doesn’t open the post, looks at yesterday’s washing up, adds a bit more to it, ignores the phone messages and assumes a Scarlett O’Hara philosophy…I’ll worry about it tomorrow. A person who has been told to take things easy tidies up behind themselves, hoovers, puts out the rubbish and washes floors. Slowly. They listen to the afternoon play on Radio 4 and they don’t have to wait until Sunday for the Archers’ omnibus.

That exhausted person finally finds the time to take their beloved car to Quick-Fit. I’m not a car person but I do have a potential loyalty to my vehicle because it saw me safely through my year in France and yet I don’t treat it as it deserves. I went to get the tyres checked out which was just as well as they, too, were, apparently, on the point of collapse. A large man invited me to inspect them and pointed out their many faults. I smiled inanely and asked if I could use his phone to alert my friend who I was supposed to be meeting for lunch. I’d lost my own phone. Said friend, who is also incapacitated due to a new knee, arrived at Quick-Fit by taxi whereupon she, too, had mislaid her phone. You’re a right pair said tyre expert. We both smiled inanely and told him we’d be in the pub if he needed us.