Wednesday 14th April

Woke up this morning thinking: Oh God, am I still alive.  

Realising that, yes, I was still alive; I wondered if my uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm for the coming day was because I had been dragged unwillingly from a particularly lovely dream. Perhaps, I mused, something to do with Phil Spencer (is it just me that think he is rather dashing?) and I relocating, relocating to a hilltop love nest in Puglia. 

Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly pushed back the covers and in the process managed to send my bedside lamp, clock and a half drunk cup of tea flying. The resulting string of expletives that erupted from deep within me would have made a long distance lorry driver blush.

Clumsiness, bad temper and an overwhelming desire to crawl back under the covers, what could be wrong? 

Did a bit of mental math (took longer than normal as brain not exactly firing at the speed of the Hadron Collider) and with deductive reasoning worthy of a passenger in the Mystery Machine realised that it was my day to be a complete and utter schitzo. So, no biggie then. 

I am relatively fortunate in that I only ever experience one day of this. Sorry, let me be accurate. My family and any poor schmuck who happens to get within twenty feet of me are the ones that experience it.

I am simply an unwitting observer. Whichever part of my brain that, under normal circumstances, controls my tourettes takes a day off and assumes the role of helpful (but irritatingly prim) sports commentator. It keeps me updated on the irrationality v sanity scoreboard and takes a fiendish delight in pointing out the bloody obvious when I’m already past the point of no return. 

Does Jiminy Cricket think that I don’t understand that starting to cry in a petrol station because the latte machine is broken is just going to make the helpful but slightly confused assistant uncomfortable? 

Stood in front of the mirror practicing my best fake smile and calmly left my room. Called kids together in the sitting room and in my best cheerful voice informed them that as a special treat, today would be a ‘jammie day’.

Annabelle looked delighted and asked if she could invite Mr Tumnus.  

The teenager sat looking skeptical and as they both went up the stairs I heard him tell Annabelle that, if she did invite him, Mr Tumnus had better be bloody quiet.  From the way Mum came stamping out of her room and the look on her face she’s got the periods.

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