I’m going through some weird kind of middling relapse.
It hasn’t poleaxed me – but it’s come pretty close – and it hasn’t rendered me absolutely useless for work (yup, The Boss would no doubt disagree). Although I was off work for several weeks over the Winter with a concrete, solid, horrendous relapse.
Instead, it’s calibrated itself just so:
- Just so that I can go to work, but end up on the sofa for the rest of the day/evening.
- Just so that I can manage to supply The Teenager with pocket money but only a passing interest in his Instagram photos of blurry figures bouncing along to some soundtrack in a dark and dingy club.
- Just so that I can feed the cat but not take delight in the fact that she loves her £5.99 Play Tunnel from ‘Bargains R Us’, cunningly laced with a liberal spray of catnip.
Super-glued to my sofa, I have a whole lot of time to reflect, and feel ill. Part of me wishes the relapse was a full-blown beauty, blasting real life out of the water. The other part is eternally grateful I can still manage a semblance of normality.
- Bustling around when The Teenager is home from school (for four minutes, long enough to Meet ‘n’ Greet, bring him up to speed on the fridge contents and arrange a money transfer).
- Bustling around when The Cat comes home, chastising her for staying out all night then feeding her special biscuits (a free gift from Ocado).
- Replying to emails, using a jaunty, happy tone. Before dying slowly and feeling very sorry for myself.
I was chatting to The Boss today in the van on our way between jobs. I was trying to explain to him how it felt:
‘… you know, when you’re shattered, lying on the sofa wishing that someone could just make dinner? And the laundry was done. And the place was clean-ish?’
He paused. Then laughed. ‘My mum does my laundry and if I’m hungry, I get a Deliveroo.’
I give up …