Today was a bit of a mixed bag. Up with the lark again this morning (not through choice), waiting for my radio to click on at 8. Washed, clean, shiny etc. ready to hit the village for the weekly shop. Then thrown sideways by another letter from the god forsaken job centre. ‘We need to receive another sick not from you by the 9th April’ – tomorrow. Not to be overly dramatic about it, but the room does one of those Hitchcock style zoom-forward, pan-back dolly zooms, and the bottom falls out of my stomach for a moment.
Now, believe me, I know how ridiculous this is, I’m typing it. Fuck the Job Centre! Right? Not in this mindscape. My brain takes off on a mile-a-minute steeplechase between panic and conjecture – what if they stop paying my ESA? -> I have no savings -> I won’t be able to support myself ->I will have to start job hunting again -> I’m not ready -> I will be spending all my time doing something I hate while I’m not well -> I will have another breakdown at work -> I can’t human anymore -> Goodbye, cruel world! Unable to function at all until speaking to an office-jockey about it I phoned them up and spent a good 20 minutes listening to a frankly nauseating Muzak rendition of Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’. That tune gives me chills, and probably will forever be inextricably linked with cruelly protracted panic and fear of catastrophe. I spoke to someone, told myself I was satisfied with their off-hand and blase ‘advice’ (I’m not) and tried to get on with my day without worrying about it any further (I’m still thinking about it).
Shopping with Mum, small lunch, morsel of Easter chocolate, then some garden DIY. This is as close to finding peace with the universe as I can get at the moment – I have made the ancient and decrepit trellis my project du jour. I spent a good 3 hours, hair tidied up in scarf, adorned in scratty bits of moss, pockets full of nails, coming to the conclusion that there’s nothing so difficult that a man can do that a woman can’t. Which is not to say I’m Handy Andy or anything (he had a single in the charts once, do you remember?), but it is a thought that gives me a certain amount of satisfaction. Since Dad died I have willingly taken over the role of handyman in our house, give me a tin of creosote any day. Cough cough…
I was going to add a video of the Beethoven torture scene from A Clockwork Orange (to link with my phone torture) but actually found this video really funny, so you get that instead.
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