How to freak yourself out and get through Sunday

Did I mention the sheer hell of Sunday? I think I did. Sundays are still a vivid journey to the edge of some dark places inside my head, before my imagination is hauled back on bungee cord for milky ways and tea. I really do hate Sundays.

One thing occurred to me. I could solve this terrible limbo by going out. A change of scenery might do something. But when your brain is working on an escape from bad thoughts it has little time to plan a day out in London. I could have gone anywhere. Museums, shops, parks. Last week I went to the Imperial War museum. The type of place a boy in a man’s body can spend a week. Not today.

Then there are things I could buy to make life a little easier. Like food for instance, or new clothes. Not today either. It seriously is an all-hands effort to get through the hours of about 1pm to 6pm. We’ve only just made it. Rescued. If I’d been picked up at sea they’d be offering me brandy and a blanket about now.

I wrote a post for my parallel blog, also known as the ‘drafts file’. And that’s where it will stay. I tried to describe this terrible mess in my head. Instead it read like an apology. I don’t feel like that. I’m quite chipper considering. It’s a careful chipper though. Like a surf-lover paddling out to ride a wave he knows is far too big and dangerous.

Besides. It’s too easy to blog about nothing. But when everything feels like a threat, and your head feels 12 years old, this is one way of staying focused in a single direction. Turning to look around runs the risk of being scared by even more windmills.

Anyway. 6.25pm. Fine now.