Bated Breath

Greetings and salutations, lovely readers! How are you all? I keep pretending that there are so many of you. Why not? It's a lovely little game called Being Delusional that I like to play. No harm done. 

So just for shits and giggles I wrote a little made up story for Friday Reflections inspired by the prompt: Bated breath.  Of course I didn't get around to posting, linking and sharing it until Saturday evening, but, as I like to say, details! Besides, that's just how I rock a Saturday night! So anyway, here it is...

BATED BREATH

Adrenaline pulsated through me as I approached the counter. Every nerve ending was tingling. It happened every time. It was equal parts thrilling and gut wrenching. Yet, I couldn't stop. 

"How are you today?" the teller flashed a flight attendant smile. Her eyes were warm behind her designer frames. I glanced at her name tag. 

Louise. 

"Good thanks," I replied, matching her smile. I couldn't be sure if it reached my eyes. Mentally I summed her up. Her ash blonde bob and manicured nails spoke of regular trips to a salon. Her trim physique suggested an expensive gym membership.  Louise was thoroughly middle class. She probably had an immaculate brick home in a leafy suburb. A husband. Kids. Just like me. 

Except I was different. I had to be.

"How can I help you?" Louise asked.

I slid the cheque across the counter.  "I need to deposit this," I handed her my key card. My hands were steady. I had become skilled at pretending that depositing generous cheques was common place for me. 

"No problem," she swiped my card and efficiently tapped away. 

I waited with bated breath. My exterior remained placid, inscrutable as my heart beat a crescendo in my chest. Any moment she might say something. Louise's pleasant features would suddenly look puzzled. An eternity seemed to pass as I willed my heart to slow. 

How many similar cheques had I deposited in the past few months? I'd lost count. Each time was the same. The trepidation. Exhilaration. Bated breath. 

"Done!" Louise beamed. It was too easy. "Have a great weekend," she added, handing me back my card. 

"You too," I exhaled, then strode out past the security guard. Maybe I wasn't safe yet. He might tap me on the shoulder. I would be cornered. Found out for the absolute fraud that I was. I lived in perpetual fear of being discovered. When I wasn't, elation replaced fear. 

The guilt always evaporated when I walked out into the busy shopping mall. I felt alive. Energised. Euphoric. I was living a double life and I loved it. Time to go shopping. 

Travis would have picked Ella and Max up by now. He'd be at home, patiently helping with homework and preparing the evening meal. He'd taken on the reluctant role of house husband since he'd been made redundant a year ago. 

Meanwhile, their bills were piling up. Travis couldn't find another job despite applying for many. He sank into depression. I'd had no choice. I was the breadwinner now. 

I lingered near one of my favourite boutiques, lost in my thoughts There was only one way to stop these intrusive worries. Shopping. My card was never declined these days. That hadn't been the case some months ago. 

"We'll have to sell the house," Travis had told me. He was flat and defeated. 

"NO!" I couldn't bear it. It was our dream home, minutes from the beach. We'd been living the good life and I wasn't ready to give it up. 

"We just can't afford the mortgage repayments," Travis argued.

"I'll be getting a promotion soon," I said "we can make it work."

In the end he gave in, too bogged down in his depression. He already felt like a failure for losing his job. Now his wife was taking care of him. He'd always been so driven. We both were. There was no way we could just give up on our lavish existence. It would be humiliating. I was too proud.

Sure, we could sell the house, but then what? We'd had have to live somewhere. Imagine having to leave their prestigious suburb to move to bum fuck boganville. I'd worked too hard to get out of there. I couldn't go back. I'd have to take Max and Ella out of their expensive schools and send them to the school I'd gone to. There was no way I'd ever do that. So I made my decision.

Though in some ways it seemed like it was made for me. My role at the major insurance company where I worked involved drawing and cancelling cheques. On that fateful day I was there early. 

There was a tap on my office door. "Coffee!" my assistant Veronica trilled.

"Thanks," I took it, smiling. Veronica was a decade younger than me and I'd taken her under my wing. She seemed to have something of 'girl crush' on me. I knew she aspired to be where I was eventually. 

"I'll leave you to it," she said, closing the door. Then I saw it. A returned cheque. The customer was no longer at the address.

Ms Sarah James.

I couldn't believe it. I knew I was meant to cancel it. Instead, I put it in my top drawer and locked it. I tried to forget, but it was burned into my brain. When I left the office, darkness was descending. In more ways than one.

"See you tomorrow, Sarah," Veronica said. She eyed my Prada suit with open envy as I sashayed to the lifts. 

At home there were more bills. Final demands. The next day I banked the cheque. It was fate that my name was the same. Didn't everything happen for a reason? 

As the weeks went on, it became an addiction. I would draw another. Just one more, I told myself. To get myself out of this predicament, give me more time. One more became two more, and eventually I lost count. 

"It's exquisite, isn't it?" The sales assistant startled me out of my ruminating. "Would you like to try it on?" 

Before I knew it, she'd ushered me to the change rooms. The dress hung perfectly over my lean frame. Stress and long hours had made me too edgy to eat much these days, though I managed several coffees and wines each day.  The liquid and embezzlement diet certainly paid off, I mused.

"I'll take it," I told the sales assistant. I could always leave the tags on and return it, I told myself. Besides, it was an exclusive label, so it was practically an investment. I could already picture the likes and envy on Insta.

 And anyway, I deserved this. I had to carry the entire financial load while Travis was at home with the kids. I would need more wine. I made a quick detour to the bottle shop. 

I walked into work the next day with a sense of foreboding. I shook it off. I saw my reflection in the elevator mirror. I looked sensational. I was winning at this thing called life.

"Good morning!" I greeted colleagues who refused to meet my eyes. Outside my office, Veronica was absent. She was always there early. My stomach dropped. I glanced at the gold lettering on my office door.

SARAH JAMES 
Financial Manager

Then I saw them. My boss was approaching me with a subdued Veronica at his side.

I froze. Bated breath. It was all over. 

"You will do jail time," I was told. When I rang Travis he was livid. He was taking the kids and going to stay with  his parents. My whole world was crumbling around me. 

The last thing I remembered as I cleared my desk was Veronica's cold stare. 


THE END.

What do you think about silly old Sarah?

Do bills give you bated breath?

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No More Regrets

Well howdy doody and how are you? Can you believe I said 'howdy doody'? I don't even know what it means! Never mind.

I am  here to talk about regrets. I have blogged about this before and came up with a whole list which you can read here.

The thing is, I re-read the list and thought about it some more. Because I love to over think things. And I began to wonder.  The root cause at the crux of some of these regrets is my ongoing battle with anxiety.

The question I'm asking myself is this: is anxiety something you regret? I mean, if you have an anxiety disorder it's not really your fault, though it is your responsibility. Fault/blame and responsibility are two different things to my mind. You can't be blamed for struggling with such a thing, but you are responsible for managing it.

Considering that my anxiety is clearly linked to the fact that I'm autistic and that is to do with the way my  brain is wired, saying I regret certain things where anxiety is at play is almost like regretting my entire existence.

I guess I'm not making much sense. Bear with me. I mean, looking at that old list I made a lot decisions based on fear and not being able to manage negative emotions. But at the time, I didn't understand that. Perhaps I didn't have the maturity or the knowledge. I mean, I didn't even know that I'm autistic until I was 40!

And even when I knew that I had an anxiety disorder, I didn't really accept it truly and properly. When anxiety in the form of panic attacks first tapped me on the shoulder many years ago, I thought of it as something more like a broken arm or a virus. Eventually it would clear off and that would be the end of it. But as anyone who struggles with this beast knows, it simply doesn't work that way.

It's only through accepting it about yourself and taking responsibility for managing it can you move forward and live a decent life. And honestly, looking back on it, I wasn't even given adequate treatment at first. It was only through my own perseverance that I kept going and trying things. Nobody ever even suggested that I see some one or pursue any help. It's almost like you're not taken seriously with these things if you're a woman... Especially one like me who has been a stay at home parent for many years. Anyway, I was trying to make a point but as usual I am rambling!

I'm just wondering about the futility of regretting things in life when you're an autistic human who has an anxiety disorder. I can say that I regret anxiety taking over my life, but at the same time, I was never given the correct tools to address it.  Somehow it seems that I've had to be very resourceful in trying to help myself and come to terms with it.

I've had six years to digest my diagnonsense and it still seems like there are often things I have to figure out and try to come to terms with.

I'm not organised. I am not a happy bubbly type. I don't know how to put it into words without sounding really negative. I am not really the person who would ever take off and go trekking by myself or do big gutsy brave things. I am not loud or opinionated or ballsy. And while I admire people who are, I can only be myself.  I am stuck being myself. A lot of times I think I should be things like confident and positive and I'm just not.

It's like if some people work out something they want to do they seem to know exactly what to do and the steps to take and then sustain it. I'm not like that. I can do certain things at times for periods of time, but not sustain it long-term. I can do one thing really well for a while. I can't do all the things.

Having anxiety and being autistic and introverted and all those things takes up a great deal of energy. I am who I am. And it is what it is.

It sounds odd, but I've realised I have to forgive myself for a lot of my perceived regrets or mistakes I made.

Ultimately I have wonderful parents, Mickey Blue Eyes and the boys and a small circle of family and friends who care about me and mean the world to me. And I want to concentrate on that. I did make some good decisions in life. Not that I want to bang on about cancer all the time, but having a brush with it certainly makes you realise you don't want to waste energy on a bunch of regrets.

But I do regret the 'howdy doody' thing. That was pretty dumb.

What about you?

What is your attitude towards regrets? 

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Waiting For Rain

There it was. That sound. I knew what it meant. That ominous wail slicing through the stillness. It always filled me with dread. It meant that bad things had happened and the villains responsible were out there lurking.

I would edge my way through the shadows and end up at the side of my mum's bed. She always let me snuggle in next to her. The siren in the distance was still a sinister reminder. It signified that the world wasn't safe outside my cocoon. My home. My dog. My parents. Books and Barbie dolls. 

Sirens were not the only thing I was scared of. There was a list, including elevators, escalators, talking in public, cockroaches and blood. I never liked watching horror movies. 

I sit by the window tapping and remembering. It's a grey, dreary day and I feel nostalgic. I wish it would rain. 

 

I remember scrunching my toes up in tan sandals. The teacher called me cutie pie Vanessa. She had gigantic glasses and her hair in a bun. I had a red suitcase. 

I remember being forced to play volley ball. I hated volley ball. And all sport. 

I remember being thrown in the pool when I was five. My screams were long and loud. I still can't swim.

In kindergarten another girl also named Vanessa was mean to me. A boy had his dangly bits out under the desk. I went and told the teacher. 

I remember skipping around the edges of the playground. I think I had an imaginary friend, but I don't remember her name. 

In year five I went away for a school camp. All the other girls hated me on sight, mistaking my shyness for being stuck-up. 

I remember going overseas in 1981. I was ten. I had long red hair. Weirdly I don't remember being scared when the plane took off. I was terrified of everything else. I remember the vivid colours of the tulips. Playing records and eating gigantic bowls of custard. It was awesome. I remember my brother and I staring at the punks with their jagged Mohawks on the train. We rode bikes everywhere. 

I remember our next door neighbour teaching me to ride a bike in our cul-de-sac. 

I remember games of 'redlight' and sausage dogs. 

I remember barbecues and cracker night. The elated feeling of leaving school on the last day of term when the long summer holidays stretched before you. Before long the elation evaporated into boredom.

"I'm borrrred," I would wail.

"Hello, bored. I'm Mum," my mother would reply. 

But I always had books and music. And sleepovers with friends and cousins.
 

I remember when my Dad used to wear bright orange flairs and it seemed completely acceptable. 

I remember when my brother had a birthday party and no one turned up. Mum had gone to so much effort making cakes and chocolate crackles and various treats. There were no more parties after that. I didn't care. My birthday was in January. Everybody went away to the beach in January.

"They can have that," my parents declared and put the air-conditioning on. Summer was something to be endured in our family. 

I remember sitting in the sun all day at a school sport carnival. I went home bright red with severe sunburn. My mother was furious. I had asked to be allowed to sit in the shade and the teachers said no. 

I remember my auntie Evelyne taking me and my cousin to Luna Park. It was 1983 or 84. Again I suffered atrocious sunburn. Back at my aunt's flat she rubbed tomatoes all over my singed and painful skin.

I remember being called a red-headed match, and - my personal favourite - a red headed rat rooter. Nice.

I remember other kids saying things to me like: "Gee, your hair's nice. Pity it's not blonde." 

I remember old dears stopping my brother and I on the street or at the shops to ooh and ah over our red tresses and slip us each a twenty cent coin. A veritable fortune back then. You could get a whole bag of mixed lollies from the milk bar! Yes, I am showing my age. Sigh. 

I remember catching the old red rattlers to Central station and attending Ultimo TAFE.

I remember  walking through the dusty dungeons in the bowels of the State Library when I worked there. I remember feeling like a fraud. I was supposed to be a grown-up now. But I still couldn't look anyone in the eye or speak above a whisper.

I remember humiliating job interviews when I burst into tears.

I remember beautiful dresses my mother made. I loved dressing up.

I remember getting married on a warm November day in 1995. I was completely calm and contented in my lovely lace gown with a long train. I carried roses and raised my voice for the vows. 

I remember being told I would never have babies without IVF. 

I remember having an ultra-sound and being told I was already 26 weeks pregnant! It felt like being told I could fly. I had magical powers. Maybe I could twitch my nose like Samantha and magic up anything. 

I remember giving birth to my sons. 

Son number one:  "Here's your baby!" Mick held him and he streeeetched his little arms.  

Son number two:  "He has such expressive eyes," the  midwife commented. Mick passed out! 

Son number three:  The 19 week scan. "There is no heartbeat." Goodbye, little man. 

Son number four:  I was sliced open. He was so TINY. Perfect and tiny. Our family was complete. 

I remember the day Mick had surgery for bowel cancer. I sat with him while he had chemo-therapy. 

I remember going to Sea World with my family. I accidentally dropped my mobile phone in the shark tank. 

I remember giggling about all the silly things with my boys. 

I remember watching diggers and excavators with my then obsessed toddler son.

I remember my second son's collection of soft toys. His favourite was a dog, imaginatively named "Doggy". If we went anywhere without Doggy, we were in serious trouble! 

Being told I that I'm autistic at age 40 is something I'll never forget. I finally understood a few things about myself. 

There was the glorious cake my mother made me for my 40th birthday. Who could forget that?! 

Memories of all the amazing meals around the kitchen table in my parents house. My mother's cooking is THE BEST. 

I remember Mick shaving my head when I had chemo for breast cancer. I remember the beautiful hats my aunt made for me. 

I remember that I need to stop remembering and live in the present. Mostly I do. Except when it rains. 

I remember the wistful, wonderful, comforting feel of a rainy day. I've always been a pluviophile. That's what I've discovered. 

Rainy days still evoke a sense of nostalgia. When a siren sounds in the rain I am reminded of all the feelings. Feeling unsettled, then safe. Uncertain, then comforted. 

Sirens signify danger. Rain is healing. Soothing. 

When the rains falls, the sirens fade. 

I remember it will rain again. Soon.  

Do you feel nostalgic when it rains?

What do you remember? 

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An Enemy Named Agnes

Today I was determined to move my body. Thirty minutes into my workout, my arch nemesis arrives. Agnes taps on my shoulder, snarling. I call her that only because it's a name that starts with an A and ends with an S (although Y would work here too). And it's not one of my favourite names, to be honest. Apologies to any Agnes's out there. I'm sure you're lovely.

My Agnes isn't. I don't really like her at all, but I've more or less accepted her presence in my life. I knew she'd turn up.

For the past week I've marvelled at my equilibrium. It felt so good not to have Agnes around. But she's a sneaky one. It's like she just has to remind you of her evil existence.

"Don't get too contented!" she will snap. I never try to reason with Agnes these days. I just wait her out. Eventually she lopes away, tail between her legs.

I was able to get on with my day. Later, I turned on the television (apparently I'm a masochist - daytime TV SUCKS), to be greeted with the news that actress Julia Louis-Dreyfus has been diagnosed with breast cancer. My heart sank.

Recently I received the all clear for the second year, which is a huge relief. But whenever these things happen - Olivia Newton John's recent recurrence after 25 years, for example - I am reminded of all the uncertainty I am left with.

No matter how many years go by with the all clear I can never truly be at ease and think I am untouchable and immune. Of course Agnes simply loves to crow about this.

I remind myself that my cancer was found 'early'. But then I wonder... Is the whole 'early detection' thing somewhat flawed? I say this because it was completely random that mine was found when it was. I went to the doctor for another reason (my smear), and luckily my GP is very thorough so she always does a breast exam as well. But what if my smear hadn't been due then, or I put it off the way so many women do? 

How long would it have taken for me to notice there were any changes, that I had a lump? By the time I did notice I'm sure it wouldn't have been 'early'. I am just not sure that 'early detection' is as easy and straight forward as we think. 

Having said that, I urge every one of you to have a good look and feel of your girls. At the moment it seems that early detection is all we've got until a cure is found. 

Meanwhile, I am doing my best to stay in the present moment and tell myself I am OK. I am a survivor. That I was lucky in an odd sort of way. 

No matter what Agnes thinks. 

Do you have a visitor like Agnes? 

Do you have your regular check-ups? Do it! 

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Taking Stock - September Edition

Making: You know what? I don't really make things, unless you count breakfast, lunch and dinner. And even then it's often toast. 

Cooking: Dinner. See above. What exciting and delectable delights have I concocted of late? Um. Yeah, just the toast thing. 

Drinking: My usual cups of tea. Sometimes I mix it up and have coffee. But mostly tea. Also GALLONS of water because I'm just getting over a cold. 

Reading: Just finished a novel I borrowed from the library called Beside Myself by Ann Morgan. It was SO GOOD. Now I'm having trouble letting it go and moving on to another book. What am gonna DO??? *starts reading ten other books* 

Trawling: Through all the mess and dust and cobwebs. Related: I began cleaning the other day and thought I was making good progress until I paused to put on my glasses so I could actually see properly. Big mistake. 

Wanting: New clothes. I hate all my clothes. 

Looking: Mournfully into my wardrobe and sighing. See above. 

Deciding: I don't know anything about everything in the whole entire world ever. Also, I can't make decisions. So, I can't decide what I'm deciding. I've decided.

Wishing: That I could afford an entire wardrobe of new clothes. Because I hate my clothes. Did I mention that? 

Enjoying: Oh! I actually started bullet journaling and I'm ENJOYING it. I suspected it'd be more like bullshit journaling to scatty old me. But blow me down and woosh me all the way back to ancient Egypt if I didn't surprise myself by liking it. I mean, I'm still a hot mess, but I have a pretty book and pens with lists and symbols and shit in it, so that's something. 

Waiting: For the wheels to fall off  my bullet journal experiment. Metaphorically speaking. It doesn't actually have wheels. 

Liking: Bullet-journaling! See above. 

Wondering: The first thing that came to mind was the Wombles theme song... I wondered how it went. Haven't heard it for YEARS. I thought it said something about wondering wombles or wombles are wondering... Or something. Anyway, I was wrong. But at least I get the important issues resolved. You're welcome. 

Loving: The sunshiney spring weather. I want it to linger before the seventh circle of hell that is summer arrives. 

Pondering: How long it will take to get the Wombles theme song out of my head... 

Listening: To the voices in my head. It's chatty up there. Too bad that never translates to real life situations. Oh,well. Meh. 

Considering: Having a go at NaNoWriMo. Starting a strenght-training routine like I did YEARS ago. Doing yoga (also been years...) . Meditating. Failing yet another attempt at becoming veggo. Just considering all this, mind you. Probably never do any of it. Except the failing thing. I can manage that. 

Buying: I totally SPLURGED the other day and bought a two dollar shirt and journal in KMart. I know! What am I like? SO frivolous. 

Watching: Ummm. Offspring (finished now). The Wrong Girl and Pulse. Also, SBS Insight... And other random shit. 

Hoping: That we might be able to go on one of our glamorous holidays some time in the future. Denman, here we come! Don't ask...

Marvelling: At the juxtaposition of how complicated yet boring as batshit life can be. 

Cringing: At my weight that is creeping up and up and up.... eeeeek...

Needing: To lose weight. Sigh.

Questioning: Why I can't just buy all the clothes. I REALLY hate my clothes.

Smelling: My signature dish: Toast.

Wearing: Revolting clothes that I HATE. Also, more clothes that I hate. And then I have to wear clothes that utterly repulse me. Yeah. Cause I hate my clothes. 

Noticing: I'm pretty sure I hate my clothes. 

Knowing: Yep. HATE. MY. CLOTHES. 

Thinking: About all the clothes I would buy, but then I'd probably just hate them too.

Admiring: Other people's clothes. 

Getting: Well, I'm certainly not getting any clothes. Sniff. 

Disliking: Do I really have to answer that? Okay, then. Books with dumb or disappointing endings. There! Tricked you! You thought I was I gonna say my clothes! So ner.

Opening: Books. I still love a good old-fashioned paper book.

Closing: My wardrobe doors. It's too utterly devastating and soul-destroying to look at the ATROCITIES in there. Now would be a good time to Konmari the f@*k out of my wardrobe. None of my clothes 'spark joy'. But then I would have to walk about naked and nobody wants that. 

Feeling: Fat. Also, like I want to eat all the chocolate. Is it possible the two are related? Hmmmm...

Celebrating: My yearly mammogram results were ALL GOOD! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Pretending: That the washing up will do itself if I wait long enough. I don't think it's gonna work. Sigh. 

Embracing: Bullet-journaling, clothes-hating. My children. Well, Mr 8 - the other boys are less huggy these days. It happens.

Done! That's my stock-taking for September.

What are you celebrating in the month of September? 

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Problems Or Opportunities?

Hello again, lovely people. Here I am on another rocking weekend. It's been a good week. On Monday I did some shopping. Tuesday involved a visit to my shrink (I can never spell the  correct word). Psychologist? Um. I think that's right... (And yes, unfortunately I am still demented, but we are working on it). Look, I 'll probably always be a little bit demented, but in a good way. I hope. But back to my week.

On Wednesday, I enjoyed some blissful alone time while Mickey Blue Eyes took the car to be serviced. And on Thursday I tagged along with my mum and her sewing buddies for a delightful lunch, because FOOD.

Meanwhile, Friday was spent cleaning, cleaning cleaning. Truly. Shut up, I do clean sometimes. Much to my disgust, as I sit here today there doesn't appear to be any evidence of this. Rude. It all just seems impossible... 

Which brings me to this lovely little prompt: 


"We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations.” - Charles Swindoll


First of all, I had no idea who this Charles Swindoll chap is so I googled, as you do, and it turns out he's an evangelical christian pastor/preacher type dude. Which explains why I had not heard of him, being a total heathen and all. 

My initial reaction to the above quote was that it seemed like another trite take on the old nugget: when life gives you lemons turn them into lemonade. Not to mention the old 'everything happens for a reason' cliche that irritates the bejesus out of me. 

My first instinct is to roll my eyes and dismiss it as claptrap. Also, I just wanted to say claptrap. Because, CLAPTRAP.

The thing is, I truly am trying to be more positive. It occurs to me that I'm some sort of weird dichotomy of sweet but sarcastic. I make no sense. Hence, the demented shrink thing... But I digress. 

Since I am prone to over thinking, I mulled it over some more. Upon reflection I recalled a similar saying from the illustrious Dowager of Downton Abbey. Yes, she's a fictional character. Who cares. She still had some classic lines. Such as this:

Life is a series of problems which we must try and solve, first one and the the next, and then the next, until at last we die  - The Dowager Countess from Downton Abbey.

Yikes. 

Very comforting words indeed. Using 'comforting' in the sense of confronting and disconcerting. 

 It's quite true when you think about it. For me, things seem truly insurmountable when I  think I have to solve lots of things at once

Oddly enough, it seems to be a thing I do. I think I have to have everything in my life sorted by half past eight in the morning yesterday and have morphed into some sort of superwoman. As a result, this thing I have heard of called autistic inertia kicks in and I end up doing nothing at all. Sigh.

Even my shrink advised me to tackle things slowly, one at a time, instead of doing too much at once. Or nothing at all, as the case often is. See above. 

So I just have to remember that problems can be opportunities. And tackle them slowly, one at a time. 

As I face all these problems opportunities I will imagine the Dowager's piercing stare and direct words. And just get on with it. 

What about you?

 Do you see problems as opportunities? 

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Alone Together

Hello! How are you? All well and bursting with vitality and joie de vivre? I certainly hope so. I am not. Presently I appear to be suffering from Mum Flu. You know the one. It's like Man Flu except no one gives a shit. Yep. That's the one.

Despite this, I figured it was about time I made a guest appearance on my own blog. As is my usual fashion, I have started posts numerous times only to trail off unable to articulate what I wanted to say. It's always unpleasant when this happens. I usually express myself better through writing. But anyway, here I am. Even clunky words are better than none. At least that's what I'm telling myself. Draw your own conclusions.

Apart from the ghastly old Mum flu phenomenon I also have blue screen of death issues. Yes, it is with great sorrow that I announce the tragic passing of my trusty laptop. I thought I  may be able to revive it. In vain, I tried for hours to find a solution. Sadly, it now won't even switch on. With that goes the laptop and my promising career in IT. Snorts.

So here I am using an ancient dodgy laptop that only works while plugged in. Nice. Problem solving, people. That's what creativity is. I'm nothing if creative. Or something...

Anyway, I wanted to chime in on last weeks Friday Reflections prompt before it's too late: Alone,Together.

An odd coincidence occurred. When I sat down to write my thoughts about this I flipped open one of my many paper journals/notebooks to find an old entry from July. This is what I had written:

It's a really mellow time of the afternoon. A sort of peaceful vibe has descended over the day. It's lovely. There are sounds of distant birds and cars, but they're a pleasing murmur. Everyone is in their own world. It's good to slow down. I wonder when exactly is it considered to be dusk? Or twilight? I need to turn the light on, but I don't want to get up and break the mood. I quite like sitting here while the gentle darkness tiptoes in around me. I am savouring the relative calmness I feel in the moment. Whenever I am in another horrible moment I can remind myself that moments like this exist as well. There are not enough places here in this house for all of us to be alone. Alone, together. I like that. 

Okay, so that wasn't particularly riveting upon reading it again. But my point is, I quite like the alone, together thing. I suspect many folk would view this as a negative thing. I don't. We are a very introverted family. In fact, I reckon, 'alone, together' could be our motto. In my opinion, alone time is essential to re-charge. Solitude is soothing and necessary for equilibrium. It doesn't mean we're not a family, a team, a united front. We are.

Alone doesn't necessarily mean lonely, to my way of thinking. I've experienced loneliness as a teenager and that is a very different thing. I certainly wouldn't want to be lonely again. I do want to be alone quite frequently.


Luckily, I am enjoying this very thing as I type this. I'm loving the peace and quiet. Later, I will welcome the noise and togetherness of my family but for now I enjoy the tranquillity... Of course I also have lots of stuff to do. But it's nice to it without interruptions. 

In other exciting developments, I have begun bullet journaling. I had heard of it before, but didn't expect it to work for a scatter-brain like me. However, I really like it. Plus, I have so many  notebooks to use up, so why not? Speaking of excitement, I also managed to make it to the library last week after my shrink appointment. Yes, I am still as cutting edge as ever. Some things never change.

Before I go, it's also the one year birthday of  Denyse Whelan's Life This Week link-up.  I am a little late to the party, but better late than never! So congratulations and thanks to Denyse. I like to link up whenever I can and the prompts are helpful as well. In future I will endeavour to be less erratic and join in more often. And now we all get CAKE! Am I right? 


Okay, just a short and sweet one. Gotta go. Things to do. Lists to tick. Serenity to saviour. 

Seeya! 

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