Yesterday I knew what I wanted to blog about today. Had a neat title and all, and now I can’t remember a single one of those really great things I wanted to say. Perhaps I should start keeping a notebook with me at all times… ah, yes. I tried that. Got a nice, red notebook where I scribbled down a couple of ideas and titles and stuff. But I kept forgetting to take it with me and now I can’t find it. Must be in that sensible place. It’s become a regular black hole that just sucks up all those things I would like not to loose.
While I wait for my memory to return I dye my hair and boil eggs for me and Lord&Master. I do this instead of packing for our trip ‘home’ — we’re heading off to London tonight. Cleo’s MOT is due this month and we’re taking the car train to Düsseldorf, driving from there to Calais, ferry across to Dover and driving from Dover to London. Should be at Colin’s tomorrow night. Should.
I feel physically ill. I can cope with smaller business trips just fine. But this is a major endeavour with me as the only driver, and I feel ill. How do pilots cope with ALL THAT RESPONSIBILITY?? I’m only responsible for me and Kevin, they have to keep HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE FROM FALLING DOWN. OH MY NED! Breathe, Ine, breathe….
I used to love new challenges, venturing into the unknown, the riskier the better. When we drove to the cabin when I was a kid we used to come past places that were popular with hanggliders and paragliders and I used to watch them and think ‘how wonderful — I want to do that!’. Mum totally vetoed that idea so I’ve never been able to get it out of my head. I’m sure it was partly a reaction to being considered a tender little flower. I was so much smaller than all my peers I was forever being hauled off my feet, cooed over and protected from this and that to distraction and I hated it (not by my parents who knew better, though). I turned into quite a nasty little thing just to get people not to touch me. Get off me! I’m not a doll, but a human, and my legs work JUST FINE! BOG OFF!
Now I’m a regular gibbering wreck at the thought of the smallest challenge that includes some form of responsibility. It’s mainly around driving, and has a lot to do with Cleo and that first trip to Budleigh Salterton where the engine died 5 times before we even got out of London. And it doesn’t take a genius to see that it is also related to that hellish incident where a wheel fell off the hire van when we moved from Edinburgh to London.
I know Cleo is in far better condition than when I bought her. But every time I get behind the wheel to go any distance I find myself listening intently to the engine, listening for any little hint that something is not quite right, that she is about to die on me, that the wipers will fall off, another knob or lever fall off in my hand, the gears suddenly jamming, the clutch not working, the whole car blowing up… I wish for the latter, then there will be no time to think, to feel. Please let us die quickly, without pain.
I KNOW I’M BEING IRRATIONAL. I mean, come on! I’m the woman who falls asleep on the back of people’s motorbikes!
Thanks for listening. I feel better now.
