It’s been a long couple of days with snatched sleep here and there in between nightmares and tears. I woke up early around 6ish and had an overwhelming urge to go for a walk down the beach before the rest of world wakes up to Saturday. I roll over to discover Friday’s mammoth glute session at Pilates had taken its toll. My arse is throbbing with DOMS. I get as far as rolling around on the foam roller and then return to bed with a tea and another episode of Made In Chelsea. I’m using this show as my re-education into London life. It’s quite hilarious and the perfect escapism from reality.
By 9.30am I felt disgusted enough with my laziness to crawl into the shower, dodging the mirror so I wouldn’t be confronted with my puffy eyes.
Coffee! The sure fire way of getting me out of my flat. I’m not falling under the dark cloud of depression but I know it’s there, down the next block and around the corner, ready to pounce if I let it. So I walk the long way down to the new Turtle cafe ‘A girl called Jayne’. It was really busy with no seats available. I stood staring at customers willing them to hurry up and fuck off. No one obligated.
Blood pressure rising I storm off to my nail place and ask them to fix my broken nail – first world problems – but if I can fix this one thing today that’s been driving me insane over the last two days, catching on EVERYTHING (it’s been broken for over a week but only annoyed me in the last two days), I’ll have achieved something in a world of nonsense.
They fix it and offer me a cheap manicure. I accept and choose white as my colour. Don’t ask me why, I thought it would make a funky change. (Nothing to do with wiping slates clean or purity or innocence I’m sure) Instead it looks shit and I didn’t hide my displeasure when I stomp out of the shop.
Back at the cafe there’s a seat inside in a corner. I nab it, open my book. Perhaps Fire and Fury isn’t the best book to read when you’re experiencing irrational bouts of anger. I manage the foreword before deciding the author is an inauthentic prick who is just out to make a quick million.
I need to chill.
I plug in my earphones to block out the incessant noice of people. Close my eyes and start to meditate. Breathe in…2..3..4..5..6 Out..2..3..4..5..6. In…”can I take your coffee order?”
Jerked back in the room I order a skinny cap and turn away again immediately. I continue my escape and pretend I’m floating on a cloud watching the world underneath me. A great trick I use to distance myself from problems. 10 minutes later I realise my caffeine hasn’t arrived. I’m jolted back and glare at every wait staff. There’s so many of them, all racing around but not getting anywhere. The boss lady is making her presence known order them around in opposite directions to whatever they were doing. I call boss lady over and ask how long the coffee will be. She apologies and literally seconds later it arrives. The chocolate sprinkles are divine. Like proper Lindt chocolate sprinkles I use for my hot chocolate in winter.
I spoon the froth up to eat it, completely missing my mouth and hitting the table. The disappointment of all that chocolate goodness spilled on the table made tears spring to my eyes. FFS.
I check my phone. 2 missed calls, 2 VMs and 3 messages. Mostly hen do logistic questions which I can’t face. I squeeze off replies and then text G to see if I can sit in her back garden and read my book. Permission granted I down the coffee and move to pay. Two MAMILS descent to take my table before I’ve even gotten to my achy glutes to work. I turn to one and making sure I don’t smile ask if he’d jump in my grave as fast. The till operator is rushed off her feet, bashes in the amount I owe and yells to tap and go. I’m irked I don’t get any form of customer service – I won’t be back.
Outside I clamber over a buggy in the middle of path and slam my headphones back in. Spotify – Cranberries Zombie fills my head. Very appropriate.
Back at the flat, I jump in the car, take down the roof, whack up the radio and drive to Gs. I sit outside for a few minutes breathing trying the calm the heart. It’s currently pumping so hard in my neck it’s like I’ve run for a bus!
G welcomes me, puts out the chair, a glass of water and half a glass of wine. She tentatively joins me and asks a few questions. It doesn’t take more than a couple of words before the tears escape again. It doesn’t feel good to talk but I carry on but I don’t think I’m making much sense. I think I’m contradicting myself as I recount conversations from last night that feel like last year. And then we change the subject and the heart stops pounding quite so hard and it’s fine again. We talk about plans coming up and the hens weekend. Anxiety levels increase again when I remember the messages and how useless some people can be. I feel like picking a fight with someone just so I can yell at them. Instead I tell G I’m irrationally angry and will be watching alcohol consumption over the next few weeks. And then take a glug of wine.
I didn’t read my book but it was nice feeling the grass under my feet. Then an ant bit me and then another and then I needed to get away. I’ve lasted an hour, that was good. I need to get home. Maybe with some Messina Gelato? No, there’ll be people there. There’s no one at home. Sanctuary.
I get a couple more texts. One doesn’t give me the information I asked for months ago and I get angry. Really angry. So angry I have an entire conversation with them out loud. They can’t hear me of course, but I’m sure my neighbour sitting in her garden can,
Then suddenly I’m exhausted again and dehydrated. I drink a litre of icy cold water and climb back into bed.
Back onto Made in Chelsea. Tomorrow will be better.