Friday, 17 July 2015

The rain wins.

The rain won.

I did call those damn Perspective Police, but they’ve now buggered off because they have a better invitation. I did look at the beauty, and it did soothe my jangled nerves, but it did not last. And now a host of frets and angsts and shadow fears swarm about my head like angry bees and I can’t drive them off.

Write it down, write it down, say the voices in my head. The only way to vanquish frailty is to admit to frailty.

I like to give you a happy ending. I was grumpy, but look – no hands – the sun came out again. I was in a state, but I talked myself down from the ceiling. Look what an ordinary cussed human can do.

But sometimes, the jangles won’t be denied. All the little pinpricks with which I can normally deal suddenly seem insurmountable. Things which I know how to do somehow become impossible. I know, for instance, that people are never thinking what you think they are thinking, especially when you think that thinking is of the mean and derisive kind. I KNOW THAT. And yet, I sent a very slightly gushing message to someone yesterday and they have not replied and I am completely convinced that they think I am a ghastly person who sends stupid messages and that they are hoping radio silence might put me in my place. The man who was supposed to come and top the fields has not pitched up and has not called and even though my rational mind says he is busy, my inner critics, who have been at the gin, insist that he didn’t come because he was so horrified that anyone could let their docks get so out of hand that he has probably LEFT THE COUNTRY. Oh, and that he’s even now in some charming tavern laughing about my ineptitude with all his new foreign friends.

You are forty-eight years old, say the stern voices; you really should know better than this.

Oh well, say the whimsical voices, every day can’t be Doris Day.

Write it down, write it down, say the voices of sanity. Admit your flaws. Everyone has a shitty day from time to time, for no discernible reason. Everyone has an entirely irrational moment when they feel useless and pointless and feckless and are convinced they must go into the garden to eat worms. Everyone needs to have a little wail, from time to time, no matter how lucky they are.

The critical voices, high as a kite on Gordon’s, are longing for me to press publish, so that everyone can point and mock.

Don’t do it, say the terrified voices. You don’t have to chronicle every single moment of crazed angst. Keep your secret shames to yourself, for once.

Do it, says the small, hopeful voice, so that you know you are not the only one. You really don’t have to be a poster girl your whole life. Sometimes, the rain does win, but that does not mean the whole game is lost.

17 July 31 5184x3456


  1. Cannot offer much more than that the weather can really grind one down. Ironically, the perspective police appear much more frequently in the sunshine. Helen

  2. Let the rain have today. Tomorrow belongs to the sun.

  3. GAAAAAH! Don't SAY that!! (Though you say it so wittily and with such erudite charm). There's nothing like the sugar of a cheerful, very intelligent grump to make the complaining go down nicely. May I join the fun?

    I ventured over via a mutual friend, Donna @ gather, who said I'd like coming here---I'd tossed a little childhood memory of The Perils of Persephone into a comment on her pomegranates, and so it went.

    We've been slogging through mud for days, with great inflows and incursions into our downstairs by such a flood the other night that DH, getting up to do whatever men of a certain age are called on to do in the depths of the night, exclaimed, "There's a whole ****load of WATER in here!." As I joined him and peeked out, I could see in the glow of the rec room nightlights the SHINE of water on the carpet. Not a mere damp dark spot or stain, but the actual Purentee meniscus of the flow, shining as it ran.

    And so we've been running the shop-vac to suck up gallons, putting down towels at the entrance to the kitchen, for one step from this carpet ont that slick slate will send your feet right over hour head, and stepping around all the huge plastic LUGS of stuff removed from kitchen counters and drawers and cubbies two months ago as the new kitchen was installed, and still not yet "all in place" for I'm treating it like a grand pleasure, not a chore, as I line drawers (pink lacy vinyly stuff, and enjoy my brand new pink and white abode, sixty-five years in the wishing.

    And I'm so glad to meet you. OK. Pollyanna time. If not for the rain, and Donna and those long-ago pomegranates . . .

    Will be back for many a delve into your lovely archives.

    rachel @ LAWN TEA

  4. I think the Perspective Police have gone on their summer break. I also had that kind of day yesterday ... and I told myself about the real misery in the world, and how lucky I was to be out and about in the world in freedom... but they just lay on their sunloungers and laughed at me...
    things are a bit more in proportion this morning so maybe their temporary squad has finally rocked up to the office... hope they've made it your way too xxx Rachel

  5. I too lost all sense of proportion and cried like a spoilt brat for about ten minutes yesterday afternoon. It has also been wet and windy here in mid-Wales more than it has been dry and calm, all July really. It adds to the sense of frustration, and conflates with petty irritations to turn them into ISSUES. Thankfully the perspective police live here permanently in the form of my calm, phlegmatic and very understanding husband. And if and when he has lost all sense of which way is up, they move over to my side of the room and I seem to be able to use soothing sounds to bring him back down to the here and now and there there it's not so bad really.

    When I lived alone for a couple or three years "between husbands" I too had to be my own perspective police. It's not easy, making the noisy petulant 90% listen to the sage and reasonable 10%. Not easy, but not impossible either.

  6. Oh. Dear Lord. I have gone sadly (happily, as it happens) astray, in that I took Donna's pomegranate reference and segued seamlessly into the HERE, with no rhyme nor reason other than your title is charming and intriguing, and must have caught my eye (shiny!) as I scrolled down. I always visualize Miss Ginger stepping along to "The Continental" as Dear Fred suave-steps her around the floor.

    It's sorta like your friend's hairdresser's sister's gardener turns out to be just the person who thinks in sync with you, but you get there via a wrong number on your phone. (we did that sort of thing once, met the lovely people, and house-sat their GORGEOUS huge stone pile of a house for six months---still send Christmas cards).

    Oh. Gosh. I do apologize---my family says that my mind skips so far ahead of the subject, it's as if they're getting in the car, and I'm already ninety miles down the road at the first scenic turn-off. Forgive the Blunder, and the Babble, as well.

    Still gonna enjoy heck out of this blog. Glad I found it.



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