No. No, it's not going to happen. Again. Or is it?
A post, that is. A few moments of concentration, of mind-taming, in the bliss that has been my last few days. Couldn't manage it the last three nights. Let's see:
Three days ago I waved my life goodbye at Gatwick Airport, little one trundling her Pooh Bear bag through Passport Control with heartbreaking concentration, other hand holding tight to the Bim.
Then I said hello to my life as I vaguely remember it, and GOD has it been good.
I know I'd been looking after alot of people - small people, sick people and various sundry things brought in by Anna-mouse from the garden - I know this. I know that I hadn't had space (or even the time) in which to swing a cat for quite some time. I know this too. And that my body had begun to argue with me the moment I woke up each morning. But it wasn't until I got back to the empty house on Tuesday night and really began to feel time and space and silence as physical entities working together for the good of my soul that I realised how very, very much in need of down-time I was.
As the Universe would have it, I also had a cold, which was a good thing, because it meant that I couldn't be Esme's date on her second chemo outing. I rang a couple of health helplines to confirm that sneezing in the Chemotherapy ward wouldn't be the best idea. (Cancerbackup are excellent). So there was nothing for it but to bury my plans to be a fantastically supportive daughter and be a fantastically good friend to myself, instead.
For a dreamer/reflective/former depressive like me, it's thinking space that I miss most of all when I am on constant toddler call. That, and the luxury to be able to do things in my own time. I'm a slow person. I don't like to rush. These days I don't rush around like a blue-arsed fly; I am a blue-arsed fly. I bang into glass doors and hop off walls in my efforts to get where I'm going. The last few days, I have begun to find my natural rhythm again.
Oh the joy.
I have gardened. Weeded with a vengeance, for long, long periods of time. The hours I spent doing this were like velvet stretched out before me. I went to war and won - beds and borders are clear: de-cluttered, unchoked, ready for a new lease of life.
I went to an audition and acted my socks off. Got down to the last two, as it turned out. Didn't even mind when the job went to the other girl because the Producer knew her. Fuck it, I said to myself (which was fun, because I don't get to swear much grown-uply anymore) - the satisfaction was in the confidence I felt in myself for the twenty minutes I was in there.
That night I went to the theatre, and once again felt utterly who I am, at one, in that place where the lights go down and a magic world unfolds before you.
I lit candles and had baths at odd times. I stayed up late with all the lights on. I made alot of noise at midnight - ah, how I miss my nocturnal habits. I knew that I could race round the house with a pair of knickers on my head shouting 'Bollocks!', if I wanted.
In short, I let Responsibility, that lard-like substance that can get so very stuck between the shoulder blades, slide from me to the floor, where I neatly side-stepped it and then promptly forgot it was there at all.
How fine it is, to have a shimmy with yourself once in a while.
My beloveds come back tomorrow. I will drive to the Airport, await them with beating heart and greet them with open arms. I long for the press of my girl's body against my own. For the Bim's fleecy hug. But when we're all safely home and cosy-tosy in our routine once again - when Anna-mouse is down, and the Bim and I are recovering on the sofa - I'll turn to him and, all casual-like, as if I've just thought of it, ask So when d'you think you might go away again?