That sinking feeling
Does the fact that I started this blog on Valentine’s Day require me to undergo a Freudian analysis? Probably, especially when after reading this you’ll be asking: 1) How many sinking feelings does it take to change a lightbulb? and 2) How many sinking feelings can dance on the head of a pin? Yup. Friday was one of those days that had my heart sink into my stomach, and my feet into the ground up to my knees, several times over, exacerbated by recurring memories – or should I say nightmares – of historic sinking feelings.
The day began with a perusal of the Daily Mail website. I suppose I could also look at the Guardian … nah, I just couldn’t. One headline read: “Russian drone hits Chernobyl”. The idea that someone could order such a heinous attack turned my stomach – with my heart having fallen into it – but then I remembered that Elon Musk was in charge of the free world now, and we had nothing to worry about any more, so that particular sinking feeling morphed into a snuggle into my comfy chair, and my first milky coffee of the day.
Checking email, I saw that the local Waitrose had suffered a power outage and cancelled my order that was due that morning. Hubby looked in the fridge, chocker with goodies, and then the pantry, so crammed that he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He wondered what I could possibly have been wanting to buy. “Gin, cheese and cake,” I recited, at which point we both had a sinking feeling – how romantic for Valentine’s Day. I realised I’d have to put aside a couple of hours that morning to drive to another Waitrose to stock up with these essentials. Or I could drive to Asda … nah, I just couldn’t.
I popped upstairs to get ready and sat at my dressing table to put in my contact lenses. They weren’t in their container, and the container was devoid of saline solution. Where had I put them when I took them out last night? You guessed it – I hadn’t taken them out. I’d slept in them. Real Davy Jones Locker moment that one. At least it explained why Hubby looked soft and fluffy through my glasses – nothing to do with it being Valentine’s Day.
Driving to Waitrose, I got caught by the level crossing because of not one but two trains, the second being a loooooooooooooong freight train. As I sat there waiting, not patiently, I broke into a cold sweat thinking about the last time I got caught here, on my way to a very very very important meeting, when someone very very very important was driving up from London just to meet with me. I had sat there with engine off and radio and heater on. When the barriers lifted, my car wouldn’t start. Flat battery. I phoned the AA. Will be there in an hour. I phoned my friend who had organised the meeting to tell her I wasn’t going to make it. Bless her; she offered to drive over with a coffee to keep me warm, which got me thinking about where the nearest loo was, and a sinking feeling of a different sort set in.
Back to the present, I arrived at Waitrose and immediately remembered 1) why I now have my groceries delivered and 2) why I never used to shop on a Friday. The store was crammed with three demographics guaranteed to raise my blood pressure: toddlers, slow-mos, and foreigners. Why foreigners? No reason. I just bandy stuff like that around because it riles the risible.
Heading home, I took a detour to deliver something to a friend in a neighbouring village. As I was now on a roll with sinking feelings – a bit like once you get hiccups, you keep getting them all day long – I thought about the time I drove the same road a while ago, and a fox dashed out in front of me. I mean literally two inches away. I drove over him/her/it/them/llama with a sickening (sinking?) thud. I imagine death-by-beagle would have been quicker and less painful, a fate to which my fox might already have succumbed had the bleedin’-hearts not banned foxhunting and given my fox the chance to grow older and slower, too slow to get out of my car’s way. Did I brake? Nope. I carried on at the same speed and put my hands over my eyes for several seconds. I’m still traumatised thinking about it now. I’m also still angry at the bleedin’ hearts for causing the fox’s excruciating death. I need to fight back, but can you imagine the collective apoplectic fit if I were to wear a T-shirt that read “Team Foxhound”? Or I could be less inflammatory and more conciliatory … nah, I just couldn’t.
I had another sinking feeling this very morning. I couldn’t launch my email account, which is as inconvenient as not being able to open a gin bottle. Turns out it was a system-wide BT fault, and I wasn’t the only one impacted. The issue was eventually fixed after lunch, and I was able to catch up with my messages. BT hasn’t, as far as I’m aware, explained what caused the outage. Neither, thinking about it, has Waitrose. Such information vacuums fuel conspiracy theories and give Starmer Stalin an excuse to willfully misinterpret and decontextualise social media posts by concerned citizens wondering WTAF is going on and what can be done about it. Can’t have people thinking for themselves, can we. Within no time, they’ll ditch the Guardian for the Telegraph or Spectator and get to know the facts. As a result, in the absence of any official explanation from Waitrose and BT, I’m guessing the perp was either Putin, Huawei or a diversity hire.
Now then (or ‘Nah thin’, as we say Up North) as everyone knows, Newton’s third law of motion is unassailable (as are my politics). It says: ‘For every force or action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.’ Applied in this blog’s context, the law becomes: ‘For every sinking feeling, there’s an equal uplifting one.’ This means that I’m due about ten uplifting moments. Actually, I’ve had some of them already this week, including:
• Lunching with BFF2 whom I haven’t seen since Tuesday
• Engaging with some lovely new people on social media
• Finding a book about Enoch Powell that I thought I’d lost
• Dipping into one of Dad’s favourite poetry books
• Opening a new gin bottle.
You’ve probably guessed that, as is my want, I fabricated the Enoch-moment to get a cackle from the congenial and a barrage from the bilious. The moment about Dad’s favourite poetry book, however, is genuine and, by coincidence, Rudyard Kipling – scourge of the anti-colonialists (Gawd, luv ’im) – fits the bill. Blogging like I do – with irreverence and cheek – helps me keep my head when all about me are losing theirs. I trust myself when others don’t. I’m lied about, but I don’t deal in lies. I’m hated, but don’t give way to hating. I sure as heck don’t look too good, even though I talk wise. I used to find it hard to hear the truth I’d spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, but I’ve grown more confident in my truth while others froth at the mouth when struggling to impart their falsehoods. I can talk with crowds and keep my virtue, and walk with Kings without losing the common touch. Foes can’t hurt me, because loving friends abound. I can fill any unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run. Mine is the Earth and everything that’s in it, because I’m willing to share, give, and take it on the chin.
Could I be any more cryptic? Nah … I just couldn’t.
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