Domestic Salve…

The aftermath of the weekend debacle is the type of exhaustion I normally associate with a hangover… Funny that. It should be baby giant who experienced that… Then again, nobody ever said that life was fair.


Truth is, needs of fatigue can be met, as I have acres of day to rest. In fact I have rediscovered time. Rediscovered having enough of it to simply sit and not even have to think. Though of course I do think.

I think of how the trees are turning on the other side of the valley. How I really ought to wash the windows. How there is a spiders web just above the wood-burner which is hanging frail, weighted with coal dust. How someone has crayoned the slate hearth (Ana). How loud the ticking clock is. How liberating a silent house can be. Sans tv. Sans radio. Sans mp3. Sans xbox, PS3 and wii. Sans wains. Sans Papa checking on how I am.

I think of the conversation with the doctor this morning. Stumbling over words which could do justice to the full-stop I have come to. And of the feeling of shame. My difficulty meeting her eye. Her retort – no man is an island. And of how I wanted to shout but I have always coped, and coped well and with everything! I am the one who copes!

I think of work and stop myself. I feel the shadow stain expectation that I will shake this lurgy off as a chill in this warm room. The weight of their desire that I just get back into things and just get on and do what I do – it is heavy ballast lying solid on my chest and stopping my breath.

I did not realise that it was possible to feel both flattered and irritated by the same thing. That the faith in my abilities is also a bit like a noose. How can you feel the positive expectation of others as a burden? Especially odd to me when they clearly think so well of me.

Ah, for the moment I will think of the comfort of the mundane and domestic. The lulling rhythm of dinners to make and children to feed, of beds to be made and of washing to be done.



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