Most days you will find me in ‘fine fettle’; rubbing along nicely with the world; positive outlook; pretty confident in my abilities; very happy with my lot.
Today is not one of those days.
Today I am over-tired, stressed and tearful. Every single action is a slog, every single tiny request is overwhelming. civility in communication is a struggle.
I’m sure I’m not unique. I skip along with my multi-faceted life, doing a million and one different jobs, perfectly happily. I juggle an overloaded diary and still enjoy a night out. And then, sometimes, I don’t.
Today I woke up after a fitful night – too hot, lots of irritating midge bites and a fly buzzing around the room all night. I woke up with a start an hour before I needed to, with a heavy heart and a disturbed gut. And then the day assaulted me. It went from nought to sixty in record time and I could barely breathe from the force of it. Hubby trying to leave to take my car (a classic, 1968 Hillman Husky named Ffloyd) the 13 miles for its MOT only to discover that it had a completely flat battery and needed push starting; B&B guests an hour earlier than expected for breakfast AND at the exact same moment as the car pushing incident; teen son trying to pack and get away for a long road trip in his classic 1965 singer Chamois and all the last-minute questions and requests that involved.
This followed an exceptionally busy week. An exceptionally busy diary for the next three weeks. And a phone call from the guys who manages a flat I own near where we used to live saying that the boiler needs replacing…. The “we need £3000 out of thin air by tomorrow” type nightmare that brings you out in a blind panic.
So this afternoon I went for a nap. Woke up, felt worse. Not heard from son as no phone signal in my own house and he’s probably not there yet so there’s nothing to be told. Ffloyd did pass his MOT. normally that would have me euphoric.
Room changes, last-minute bookings, ironing. This whole summer, rather than seeing us through winter will pay for that bloody boiler , in that bloody flat, that I wish I never bought but can’t sell. I must be the only person with Essex based property that suffers with negative equity. NEVER, listen to those TV programs that tell you its a great deal to buy off plan. Been stuck with this millstone for 12 years now. Its one of those “luxury complexes” that turned out to be a bag of shit; built cheap by cowboys and has suffered from fire, flood and plague of locusts (well cockroaches…and no I am not making it up), in the years I’ve had it; never mind destructive tenants; illegal immigrants and enforcement officers battering down the doors (at my expense). I could go on; but I can feel myself building to a crescendo of self destruct.
Today I’ve shouted, and shed tears.
Tomorrow is another day. May my more positive and happy-go-lucky normality resume. In the meantime, today can go poke it.