And how do you feel about that?

*see below*

So the counselling is still happening.  And throwing up the occasional surprise, it has to be said.
Bearing in mind the initial reason for having these sessions was because of my shattered confidence behind the wheel of a car - due in no small part by having two die at my hands in 5 months, as regulars will already know - the 'conversation' occurring once a week doesn't seem to be tailored to re-building my assertiveness on the road or anywhere else.

I don't know what I expected to be frank (although it IS quite refreshing to be Frank once a week). But I think I kind of imagined it would be a bit more structured than it is.  I mean, I  seem to go inside the room, sit on my chair and just vent my spleen.  Not in an altogether *bad* way - although last night I did seem to simply sit and bitch about The Husband for an hour solid (I was still making mental addendums on the way out for next time.... sad, but true). And  I think I thought that by now we'd be... I don't know... doing psychological exercises in self-delusion techniques so that when I get behind the wheel of a car I imagine I am an Invincible (female) version of Damon Hill or Jensen Button or whoever is the greatest driver of all time.  So not Jeremy Clarkson.

This doesn't seem to be happening.
But these things I have learnt thus far from my sessions:

1. I can recall a six digit code to enable my entrance through the front door of the therapy centre after only having looked at the piece of paper once.  (I was unbearably smug at parties with the *guess what's missing off the tray* game).

2. I don't blame my parents (as much as I thought I did, anyway).  Or maybe this has more to do with "not speaking ill of the dead" than proper, actual forgiveness - my counsellor has yet to give me the 'nod' on this one.  That's how it works, right?.

3. Whilst I can speak for a whole 53 minutes without repetition and hesitation,  I can still deviate for England.

4. I think I'm stupid.  Every time I say it, it echoes through my head.  "I know that's a stupid thing to think" I say.  Or "I know I'm being stupid".  And she doesn't do what 'ordinary' listeners would do in a 'usual' situation.  She doesn't frown, shake her head and say back "Oh no, no you're not...".  She just sits and waits to see if I need to quantify my stupidity and when I don't (because I'm waiting for the 'normal' noises of assurance that I'm not stupid, and that's a stupid think to think) she says something like "you say you think you're stupid a lot...".  Which makes me think.  And then she'll say "why do you think you're stupid?".  And when I think about it properly, I realise I actually don't think I'm stupid, I just need assurances that I'm normal.  

5.  Even though I was never a Brownie ( they scared me and I couldn't even go into the village hall to join them because I was convinced they'd all laugh at me and hate me) or a Girl Scout, I have a very real need to Be Prepared.  This manifests itself in my kitchen cupboards.  There is nothing there that hasn't got a back-up.  And, as the Girl and the Hubs will confirm, my mantra is "we never run out".  Which is currently not working at the moment because both we and Sainsburys have  run out of Tomato Puree and for this reason I am mightily glad I have sleeping tablets to get me off of a night otherwise I'd be lying awake 'til the small hours re-scheduling meal plans for the remainder of the week or until I have enough bravado to scale the winding car park of the nearest superstore (ironically Sainsburys).


6. The tiniest glimmer of understanding can make me weep.  As I was leaving my session, my counsellor said 'see you next week' and I must have looked a bit non-committal.  'Do you still think you're wasting my time?' she asked, and I nodded.  'I'm sure you've got better things you could be doing,' I told her, 'people with far bigger problems than my stupid (see?) ones...' and she smiled like I'd imagine the Virgin Mary would, if I believed she ever existed.  'You're not wasting my time,' she said.  And with that reassurance I left, in tears.

Then on the way home I realised that she could also have meant that I am a prime candidate for counselling, I'm as mad as a box of frogs* and will keep the Counselling Centre afloat single handedly for the forseeable future.

And I still don't know how I feel about that.

My first is in Dentist but not in Drill... or something like that

Do you like riddles?
Nope, me neither. They're too similar to clowns to be comfortable, aren't they?
But because this word rhymes with SCARY and WARY and .... okay, back to SCARY again.  And ExtraOrdinARY, perhaps... I thought I'd be all riddle-y with you as a little teaser.
The word is... *dah-dah-dah* HAIRY. And along with alluding to something in the hirsute department, it can also be synonymously-rhymed with 'scary' and 'wary' too - so altogether a nice little bundle of sense.
In my head, that is.  And we don't really want to dwell on that for too long, do we?
Anybody who knows me already knows that since the 2nd 'C'-word I haven't been myself much.  I go out even less now than I ever did - and that was hardly ever.  I have become what is known around these parts as a bit of a recluse.  A hermit.  I am the Howard Hughes-in-training of Bedford (walking about naked on uninterrupted streams of Andrex excluded - for the time being - and until we can source much thicker nets for the windows).
And a trip to the Hairdressers has never been Up There on my list of favouritest things in the world to do.  In fact it's probably equal first with the Dentist if I'm to be frank - and currently I'd rather be Frank than Debs any time of the day or night thank you very much.
So imagine my dismay when I thought my Ladyshaver had run out of steam as I pulled a great wodge of hair out from underneath my arms, only to find it still attached to my head - the shock - the horror - the hideousness of having to  find the wherewithal to even make an appointment at the Hairdressers! (Note:  the hair being stuck under the pits is my SIGN that I need a trim.  I will even walk with elongated arms rather like a Neanderthal for an extra week if it will earn me more time to put off making the hairdressing appointment.  Oh, and I cut my own fringe.  Badly, apparently.  But then that could very well be tactical on Hairdresser's part).
I digress - but then you already know that.
Don't you HATE HAIRDRESSER-SPEAK almost as much as you hate Riddles and Clowns... and Dentists?  I do.
'Haven't seen you since February - what've you been up to then?' I am asked pleasantly.
And for some reason I am compelled to NOT gloss over the past few months with an airy 'Oh you know, this and that...' - and I believe that reason has something to do with the list of "side effects" I noticed on the information leaflet inside my sleeping tablets.  Along with the usual, "depression/difficulty sleeping (WTF?)" and "headaches/hand numbness" and "metallic taste/difficulty swallowing" -, is "relaxed grip on reality" - which I always thought would be a positive thing. Not so during a trip to the hairdressers, apparently.
So I told her everything.  About the 2nd crash and how it affected me and how anxious I'd become, how I virtually quake at any thought of having to travel anywhere at any time and how paranoid I'd become generally.
And she shut up.
There was a tiny query as to how badly I'd been hurt... to which I'd repeated (maybe menacingly, maybe not, it's difficult to tell what with this relaxed grip on reality that I have) that physically I'd just suffered the whiplashy thing, but that I'd been PSYCHOLOGICALLY damaged...
Which quelled the queries again.
To the extent that I even left the salon with still-wet hair, as she told me "Professionally" that she liked to leave curly hair on the damp side because it didn't drag down the natural bounce.  Yeah right.  What she actually meant was: " Jeez, I'm not getting involved with all this crazy-shite-psycho-wank, I'll give it a cursory trim, lasting all of ten minutes... maybe just snap the scissors a bit and not even touch the ends of her hair...  reduce her price by a tenner and she can blimmin' well drive back home looking like a frightened dog that got caught in a thunderstorm, trapped, trembling in a car and given a quick run-through of the Highway Code before feeling able to drive off...
If I'm lucky, she may even get home, burst into tears in front of her husband and vow never to have her hair cut again.  By me, at any rate."
Which I did.

Grey Days

Hopefully that view on the left will soon become the view on the right.

It's difficult to describe how I've been feeling lately; and it's hard to talk about depression anyway, right?  Because even in these enlightened days, it's still a bit of a taboo subject and there're always two schools of thought about it.  There are those who believe depression is a bit of a luxury that only the bored or aimless can afford.  And there are those who know that it can be a life-consuming condition that threatens to destabilise the sturdiest of foundations.
My parents held the former belief and I remember well the time I needed psychiatric counselling after I'd taken one too many prescription drugs as an angsty teen.  Of course, the intention had never been to actually kill myself (and I was intelligent enough to realise that 12 Valium - which I'd been prescribed for 'nerves' - was only going to make me pass out at worst) but the guilt I was made to feel when my parents realised what I'd done was suffocating.  I was called a "coward" and a "selfish child" for having put them through the embarrassment of having to transport me to our doctor's to find out why I wouldn't wake up, and their humiliation of having to take me for weekly counselling sessions was almost to much for them to bear and what on earth were they "going to tell people?"
Of course if they'd  actually asked me why I'd done it, instead of shouting me down and berating every subsequent move I made following the 'incident' (my mum even made an elaborate show of hiding all the sharp knives in the kitchen and staying upstairs with me when I took a bath) they'd have realised that I simply felt lost, lonely, afraid of my own shadow and convinced I was invisible in every way.  Until I literally felt I was going to explode with madness and sadness.  And all  because my closest friend had left our town and gone to Uni some 40 miles away. I'd got no one around I felt I could talk to and I felt abandoned. I guess it was separation anxiety.  So taking those tablets was the stereotypical cry for help - only it never came - at least not from the source nearest to me.
After this, I always felt let down by my parents and knew I'd never have a proper bond with them, however much I fantasised it might some day happen the way it does in films.
The last time I needed prescriptive help was ten years ago when my marriage died at the same time as my mother.  And had it not been for the mother and daughter from the nursery that The Girl was going to at the time, popping round unannounced one morning, then I'd probably still be in my PJ's rocking and sobbing  in the corner of a room whilst a confused daughter played silently in another room.  I didn't even realise it was me in the corner.  That's how unattached I felt with reality.  And as a trained Nurse, the mother totally took over; made sure the girls were entertained, got me dressed, yelled blue murder down the phone at my doctor's receptionist when told there were no available appointments and just drove me straight there.  Through my wet mess I sat shaking and sobbing with the doctor explaining the tablets would take a couple of weeks to kick in, that they wouldn't make everything better, but they would help me feel more able to cope: "but they won't make my husband love me again" I remember wailing like a child.
And even though we were never close, for some reason all I wanted was my recently departed mother. Or perhaps my idea of a Mother - to make it all better.  And that made the unbearable sadness of my husband not loving me anymore even harder to comprehend because now there were two people who'd never love me again and I felt completely powerless to hold onto any kind of hope that anything would ever feel 'normal' again.
But it did.
A different kind of Normal.  A more independent normal.  A tougher one, if you like,  because that's what becoming a single mother does to you.  It makes you look at life differently; makes your options that much more singular and creates a fortress of self-preservation around your little unit  that you never thought you had the materials at your disposal to build - let alone sustain.
And slowly time heals the pain and life takes you down more avenues of Normal.
Until something like two car crashes in 5 months hits you ('scuse the pun) for six and even though you can feel and see the pins tumbling, it's like they're made of water and the  more you try to hold onto them, the quicker they slip through your fingers.
The only way I can describe how I've come to feel over the past fortnight is fearful.  I'm pre-occupied with route-planning and working out when I have to drive somewhere, when I should leave, how long it should take, which roads might be safer, clearer, wider even... and I hand-wring for a good 30 minutes before any journey, staring out of the window as if this will somehow help me prepare.   I'm anxious - to get whatever car journey is required - over with - out of the way and then I can relax in the safety of my home.  Weekends have become solitary.  Something I used to look forward to; they're now a kind of cocoon and I'm getting that dreaded 'Sunday-night-feeling' I used to get when the School-on-Monday loomed dark and foreboding, decades ago.  And a part of me feels invisible once more.  After all, I must be see-through for two cars in 5 months to decide that the shortest route is straight through me? And this invisibility has seeped into my personality.  I don't feel that anything I write, think, say, has any proper substance to it.  Therefore I'm not writing (apart from this and I'm still not sure I'll actually post it anyway) and I'm not really commenting on a lot of things, I think a hundred times before I speak and even then am convinced what I've said was all wrong, and everything feels very grey and fuzzy round the edges.
Although I haven't woken up thinking 'what's the point' now for five days.  Which has to be a good thing.  So I'll just take one Good Thing at a time for a while...

Why I *heart* messages from The Universe

When you've had the shittiest few days and it feels like nobody *truly* gets why you feel the way you do and the prospect of even stepping foot outside scares the bejeezus out of you and makes your legs turn to jelly (in an actual - no, seriously - way) then when you get a message like this pop up in your inbox it kinda makes your heart lift just a little.  And little heart-lifts are all I can sensibly contend with right now - without my brain turning to mush, and my ... oh, you already know about the legs, don't you?

"Wake up, Debs! Remember what excites you. Think of these things, those friends, and the adventures that can be yours. Focus. Care. Fantasize. Imagine. It's all so near. Speak as if you're ready. Paste new pictures in your scrapbook, on your vision board, and around your home and office. Physically prepare for the changes that you wish to experience in your life. You've done this before. You know it works. You're due for an encore. It's time to amaze. That's why you're there.
And it's why I'm here.
The Universe"

So forgive me if I'm quiet for a little while.  
I haven't given up.
I'm just preparing for my encore.  And when I have the courage to drive as far as the nearest DIY store, I shall be splashing out on a corkboard whereupon all my visions will be displayed for ... well, me, predominately... to see and focus upon.  
And we'll see how that goes, shall we?

dolly steps

Happy.... happy.... Ah yes! I remember that....

"...Sorry! We could not find happy

It may be unavailable or may not exist..."

This is the message I got when I entered 'happy' into the search bar when looking for a sunny, cheering, optimistic image to put up on this post. Worrying, no?
 (And just one of the many and varied entertaining things about Virgin)
Because I'm trying.  No, really I am.   You only have to ask the Girl, who left me in bed this morning nursing painful shoulders, neck and arms - and with a blindingly piercing headache that just won't budge - and she'll tell you how impressed she was that I still had my sense of humour.  That my unfailing way to always see the funny side of things  hadn't left me or got crushed in the (2nd) mangled heap  in the drive to be wrecked at my hands in five months.
And my first thought, as I sat, stunned and shaking in another burny-smelling car which had been shunted across both lanes of the road yesterday morning (thankfully 120 seconds AFTER the school run and not during otherwise this would be an altogether different post) was "That's it.  I'm not leaving the house again and certainly never driving another car as long as I live".  Seriously, it was.  So slightly different to the last time when my first thought was "Shit - I hope that blood isn't from my teeth and how will I get to Sainsburys".
And I remember how it goes - the tune I had to whistle 5 months ago.  It's just that the words are slightly different and the melody's a bit tired.  And there isn't a 16th Birthday Party to organise in 3 days and the days aren't short and dark and I don't have an arm full of burns and a cut and swollen face this time.
Until I look out of the window and see the wrecked car awaiting it's assessment (I know it'll be a write-off again - I knew the last time - call it intuition but I know the insurers aren't going to fork out for a whole half side of a car which is so caved-in the back seats won't sit down - and a buckled wheel. I just know).
I was never particularly 'attached' to the car anyway.  It always reminded me of the crash in November and really it was a rushed replacement for that one when the insurance money came through - a necessity. Not like the one that was chosen so methodically and lovingly from many hours of searching through Which Car? guides and sitting chatting to the lovely Honda people and working out how much we could sensibly afford to pay out each month for it.  That one was a wanted car.  Our honeymoon car.  This one - pah - well, it's just another car.  I didn't even care that the spec was slightly better than the last one.  That it had a reversing beep (which actually frightened me most of the time) that it had a panoramic static sunroof (what's the point in that unless you want your head to roast in the sun without the benefit of having a breeze to accompany it?) that it had cruise control (which neither of us fully understood and so never even flicked the switch to use) and it had a dual heating system so that the passenger could turn their heat up independently of the driver (I did start to think this might come in handy during the impending  Menopause years.  That'll teach me).
But more than this,  I now find I have an almost overwhelmingly deep-rooted fear about getting back behind the wheel again, knowing how I felt last time this happened.  When, invariably, during the early days (esp. when I was in one of the 2 courtesy cars we had) I would arrive at work a trembling wet mess because I'd been such a cautious nelly on the 45 minute drive to work that I'd incensed other drivers into hurling poorly-timed abuse and impatient horn-blowing as I'd either stalled for the fifth time that morning or else just not been confident enough to pull out into busy lanes when they would have done.  My heart picked up speed every time I stepped into the car.
And until only recently I wouldn't volunteer to go anywhere I didn't absolutely HAVE to.  During half term I actually took the Girl on a Prom dress expedition to a quirky local village - even though I still hesitated a lot being on unfamiliar territory, and I HAD to find a parking space that could take a Sherman Tank, I did it.  And I was proud of myself and very, very, relieved to be back home safely in one piece.
So, God only knows how I drove the veering, clanking thing back home yesterday morning with it's wobbly wheel - hitting a top speed of 15 mph - convinced the burning smell was going to suddenly ignite and blow me sky-high.  And I think if I hadn't had a police escort in front and a concerned husband behind me, I'd still be at the side of the road shaking and sobbing my heart out now.
Half of me knows that this is just an unhappy co-incidence.  The lightening striking twice thing.  And I should NOT take it personally and believe that somewhere someone/thing is out to get me and will not rest until they've made a proper job of it.
Whilst the other half is still hoping to become convinced of this.

ANALOGIES R US (well me, anyway)

It’s the most ridiculous reason for feeling that ‘broken hearted’ stab of pain to the heart in the world.

I can only liken it to the feeling (and I haven’t had to endure this for years thank goodness) to getting the confirmation that you’re being cheated on or else after ages of disbelief and anxiety, it’s finally true – you’re being dumped.

And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Agents contacted me and told my the book it sh*te already?

Husband cheating on me?

Been dumped?

Three-tiers of school fallen on my head?

No – we’ve been told that after nearly 2 weeks of assessments, the car is a write-off.

It hurts my heart – I don’t know how else to describe it.

And just millimetres away from my head is a big tray labelled ‘crap’ which contains insurance companies, finance agreements on a now deceased car, bank balances, credit crunches (with a soft caramel centre? I wish) and reduced working hours/cashflow – teetering dangerously and waiting for that final straw to send it crashing down.

Deep breath.

Because I’ve heard worse things happen at sea.

If I’d been in the same kind of head-on collision in my lovely boat then I sure as hell wouldn’t be blogging about it right now.

See? Sea.

THE AFTERMATH (A bit like the Ood but less dangly)

It struck me (did you see what I did there? There’s humour to be found in almost every situation) this week, whilst repairing from last Friday’s collision, how like a bereavement my accident and, more importantly, the aftermath of my accident, had been.

At point of impact, nothing and I mean NOTHING had “passed before my eyes” – no flashing of childhood images, no distorted views of hopes that had been dashed or dreams that had failed to materialise – nothing. Ziltch. Nil. Nada. The only thing before my eyes were marshmallows which turned out to be the trillion and one airbags that had slammed into all parts of my body to cushion the blow. So perhaps airbags were the antidote to my life flashing before my eyes. Maybe.

Just like disjointed thoughts that hurtle through a bereaved mind after being told that ‘I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do,’ I remember sitting in the car, squashed by all these fluffy things and thinking ‘Great. How will I get to Sainsbury’s now?’ - even before I’d checked for loose teeth, ignoring the blood on my face. Classic disbelief that it’s happened at all and perverse irritation that now life won’t go on quite the same. It will be different, and all over the place until ‘life’ once again settles into another routine.

And the flashbacks. They started immediately. I had no other thought than of the seconds before, during, after impact – on the way to hospital in the ambulance I didn’t even know where I was going. Blinded by anything other than the sight of the car aiming directly at me and then the violent slam followed by white. Nothing happened between each flashback – they were on a masochistic continuous loop. I didn't want to keep seeing the final moments but I was compelled to relive them.

Paperwork, followed by phone calls followed by paperwork followed by visitors followed by phone calls and more paperwork. So reminiscent of ‘tidying up’ following a death. So much to sort out. So much to do – and then a visit to the deceased – hunk of metal.

Denial. I don’t remember it being like this. How did I get out of it? What happened? Why couldn’t something have been done to avoid this? Where will it go?  What will happen now?  No answers.

And then the pain.  I actually started to believe I wouldn’t get any. I was fine. Nothing broken - I’d been checked out, had all sorts of monitors stuck to my body and been asked where it hurt. Nowhere. I should have been asked 24 hours later. And then again another 3, 4 days later.

It’s not until everything’s finally sorted out - that no more can be done - the "funeral"’s over and you’ve had your fill of sympathy and you’ve listened to everyone telling you how much worse it ‘could’ have been and that luck was on your side, that the shock and the anger starts and the tears just seem like they’ll never end.  Because there's nothing more you can sensibly "do" apart from wait for the pain to stop and try and move about normally.
A standstill.
And then as the  pains start to ease slowly, you notice that life goes on around you and that you’re actually just another cog in the great wheel of eternity and that when you’re ready you just have to jump back in and get on with it. No spiritual direction required. Just a belief and a knowledge that this has happened. You’ve dealt with it – move on.

Of course without the support and constant love and encouragement from those around me, I could very probably have flaked and ended up never driving again. As it is, I am now incredibly aware of young lads behind wheels I’m convinced they have no right to be steering. And I tense at any approaching car but I know that just like the bruises, this fear will also fade.

And just to prove that life does, indeed go on - I've another agent interested in 'Double History' and I wrote a staggering 7,900 words yesterday to make sure it's the best it can possibly be.

Accident?  Pah - I flick a finger in the face of adversity, me! Or do I rise above it?  I don't know - I'm only a spectator who happens to get wordy about stuff.

*sighs out deeply*

CAR CRASH FRIDAY

It felt surreal. I’d had a great day at work following a well-needed 2 days off and although nothing was planned for this weekend, the sheer bliss of knowing there’s nothing to rush about for, coupled with the thrill of watching those Twins on X-Factor, meant I was chilled and relaxed and ready for anything. Well, almost anything.
What I wasn’t expecting and wasn’t prepared for was, when driving up the nice country road to pick The Girl up from school, a car coming in the opposite direction which appeared to be a little too far over my side of the road for comfort. Thinking the car had probably just overtaken a parked one and was still driving a bit wide, I steered over to the left a little more to give it a bit more room. But it kept on driving straight at me. Even when I was pretty much on the grassy kerb, it seemed to be right in my….surely not….

A massive jolt. Whiteness. A horrible metallic crunch, car alarms, a horrible burning smell and Paolo Nutini still crooning over the whole weird moment as a reminder that I was still alive. Then something warm and wet falling down my face. I couldn’t see out of the window, both air bags and something concertina-ed from the roof was obscuring my view. I looked in my mirror, my glasses were wrapped over my cheek and my ear and there was blood. The first think I checked was my teeth – a mad thought that said ‘while you don’t feel pain – check you still have your teeth’. They seemed fine but covered in blood. Get out. The burning smell was choking but the door wouldn’t budge. I noticed my hand was cut and bloody, and then the driver (loosely termed) from the other car appeared in the windscreen. I could see him mouthing ‘shit, shit, ‘shit…’ and he came round to the passenger door and opened it. ‘You alright? Shit…’ he kept repeating. ‘I can’t get out’ I told him and he came round and wrenched open the door. I just sat there thinking I’d wake up. This wouldn’t have happened. This can’t happen. I have Alice’s Birthday to sort out. I have NaNo I need to keep up. I have a weekend I want to relax in. This can’t be happening.

Then a lady from a cottage on the road (who’d thankfully witnessed the whole thing) came over and helped me out, led me away and gave me kitchen roll for the dripping blood, wet wipes for the dried up blood and a blanket and cardigan for the icy shivers I suddenly got. Everything on my body shook uncontrollably and yet still I needed to stare. Over my shoulder, out of her window – pacing up and down in her cosy living room, surely that wasn’t my car that was crunched and twisted with one wheel lying in the middle of the road and what was left of the bonnet only inches from a lamppost – which reminded me of the one in Narnia and co-incidentally part of the display I’d been working on at school that morning.

Someone went to the school and took Alice out of her last lesson. When she appeared with her best friend (Livvy, lovey, you are a star) she was crying and shaking almost as much as me. It hadn’t felt real, she said, until she’d had to walk past the two cars mangled in the middle of the road and the police diverting traffic and the ambulance outside the cottage lady’s house… and she realised her mum could have been killed in that.

But I wasn’t.

The lad, who had only passed his test 7 months ago, admitted full liability to the police, said he’d been speeding, was on the wrong side of the road (do they not cover this in driving lessons these days?) and ‘had other things on his mind’ – which turned out to have been an argument with his girlfriend who goes to the same school as Alice.

It’s only the second day, I know. And apart from the massive inconvenience and upheaval of trying to get from A to B (currently the haulage place where the car was towed to and Sainsbury’s, but still…) a new bruise is appearing every hour, the skin on my arm where the airbag burnt it, is coming away, my nose still looks like Leona Lewis's original one and I have the official whiplash. Which I’ve never had in my life and wouldn’t wish on anyone.

I thought it’d be a stiff-ish neck. It feels like there’s no skin on my shoulders and neck and someone’s just had a bloody good slap of it. And again. And again…..

I guess the fiasco with Tesco and the Krispy Kreme doughnuts I was intending to blog about has kinda paled into insignificance compared with this…?

And for those of you who are currently watching ‘Flash Forward’, I have to admit to being more than a little peeved that my Life didn’t ‘flash before my eyes’ at the point of impact. I don’t know what this means – perhaps I haven’t lived enough of it to be flash-worthy? Who knows!

This is all good material…. This is all good material…. I can write about head on collisions now!

Er... are you pre-menstrual or something?

You'd think, wouldn't you, that after nigh on thirty years of having your "little sister"/"Great Aunt"/"The Decorators" staying for a week, you'd have kind a got the hang of the little... shall we say, 'hints' of their imminent arrival. I mean, it's not as if these visits are entirely UN-planned, now are they?!
So why do I seriously still expect some kind of written acknowledgment that this is going to happen? Why do I still stand back in amazement at the conundrum that is crying over spilt anything, the Andrex puppies, Strictly CD or even X-Factor (come on now!), the misplaced temper tantrums and finally the abject realisation of my pitiful, let me repeat, PITIFUL excuse for an existence and then feel utterly guilty for having felt that because of all the starving and dying children in the world... oh, you get the picture.
I shouldn't be allowed out during these days of mental cruelty - to others I mean. Once I even knocked down a brick wall whilst reversing into the drive. On realising what I'd done, I drove forwards and ran over a large piece of already knocked down wall and then tried to go back in - thus ensuring I took out at least a further three rows. MiniMe still marvels at the sight of mother knocking down a brick wall and then making damn sure I'd done a proper job of it!
So it should have come as no great surprise that whilst Hubby was mowing the lawn yesterday he called over to ask me if I'd been in any 'scrapes in the car' recently. Not what I would have called a scrape, but yes, the day before I'd misjudged the kerb on the helter-skelter car park and driven probaby 50 metres ON IT, hence the 'scrapheap challenge'-look it was now sporting with it's skirt hanging off the front. Gulp. Yes. And in human years, it's still only a baby...surely tantamount to abuse of the cruellest order?!
OMG! - hand me those tissues, will you, I think Aunty's on her way!