Despite the fact that my second record album that I ever bought as a human being was John McLaughlin & the Mahavishnu Orchestra (how precocious is that?) I am most assiduously not a Hippy. I am very much a Post Modern Child, who went to suburban punk parties in ripped bin liners, and metaphorically spat on the latter.
However, I do believe that The Universe was trying to tell me something last week.
The Cult of Busy, I've decided, is a state of mind. I'm always insanely busy. I cannot breathe sometimes I'm so busy. I forget to eat and wake up at 2am in the morning worrying about children's lunch boxes and phone bills and bank accounts and the state of the garage.
Last week I managed - in one day - to fall down our challenging spiral stair case and slide the car into a ditch. Both things are imminently possible and avoided each day. The checklists of 'little survivals' (found the keys/had enough petrol to get into town/remembered a birthday) are maybe the things that get one through the day. Things seem to go downhill when the sum of the parts fractures.
Such was my day last Thursday. The Universe Got Me. I fractured for a day, stayed at home and tried to re-group. I didn't get out of my pyjama's, ate an entire box of Ferrer Rocher chocolates, finished my book, ignored the house and didn't switch on the computer. I was quite happy by the time everyone else got home.
It's been such a challenging few years, but we all know we're almost 'there'. The kids are craving normality, I'm craving the hairdresser and Tyler is craving more sleep. I'm hoping, in true-Hippy speak, that we've just seen that really dark patch just before the dawn.
This week has already been better.
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