Whilst having a nervous breakdown earlier, so intense I’ve NOT WASHED MY DISHES (the shame! The outrageous rock star behaviour!) I decided to pop down to Mammy and Papabear’s house to use their internet and computer because I, due to extreme poverty owing to a lack of job owing to a lack of decency at my last one leading to my deciding to take the path of freedom (and hence poverty), do not have either.
The extent of my computer work was to look up ‘retreat centres’ where people having midlife crises (or nervous breakdowns as I prefer to call my current dribbling predicament) can go and stay in a mini house thing and think in front of a fire. Naturally there is no tv, radio, net, or dirty boys to distract you. This is hardcore meditation and reflection, with electric blankets. One’s body should not suffer during the Irish winter just because one’s mind is falling apart.
Anyhoo I’ve emailed a place – calling them seemed wrong, as I didn’t want them to hear my dribbling, they might turn me away.
Afterwards Mammy came in and fed me roast pork (I ate the entire crackling) and ice-cream which is my favourite dessert ever, alongside Victoria Sponge, coffee and walnut cake made by Trevor and Panties’ cupcakes.
After THAT, Mammy read some cards and they seem to have come out quite positive. Some of what came out in the cards echo what my counsellor has been saying to me which is worrying if one is thinking one’s counsellor is either influencing or being influenced by some cards in Mammy’s living room, or not worrying, for the same reasons.
This induced a positive life discussion of how I am somehow going to get out of this emotional mire, with Mammy encouraging me in my writing, noting that when I write about day to day activities and their madness it always comes out well. Unfortunately this led my tangent-prone mother to then remind me of something she had reminded herself to remind me about some days ago, that being the way I hang sheets on the line.
I have not discussed this before but my mother and Lilsister have serious brain deformities when it comes to washing clothes and how they are hung and dried on various washing lines. I come down on the side of the normals when it comes to washing, that meaning that if my clothes are cleaned and occasionally even ironed, I am quite happy. However, when it comes to the other women in my immediate family, I am seriously outclassed. Clothes have to be hung a certain way, and with a certain level of exposure to fresh air (difficult to do in Ireland due to horrific weather) or else they may crinkle 5% more than they would have, or ‘smell funny’. Even underwear does not escape particular hanging rules and regulations, despite (in my case) nobody seeing it. Duvets and pillows must always be allowed to dry in the air, however difficult, even if this means running to the back garden every six minutes to rescue the bedlinen from the next torrential shower. An excellent workout I’ll admit, but I go to a class for that and that is quite sufficient thank you.
I know at this stage I should confide and confirm the correct way to hang a duvet in torrential rain as per Mammy’s advice, but really, could you be bothered? And as for using an iron for anything except a perfunctory glide over a scabby work top and then throwing said iron through a window when the finished job looks as if you did it blindfolded, well you know what I mean.
We have now spent longer discussing my uselessness at drying clothes than we have of the shambolic disaster that is my life at the moment, so it’s good to know priorities are being met. I wouldn’t mind, but unlike Mammy and Lilsister, I don’t even change my sheets that often – once a week?!? Who has the patience? But I’ll only release that titbit of information on their respective death beds. That way they can’t get me and imprison me for offences against Good Housekeeping.
Yes, I fully expect to outlive them both.