(A contradiction in terms)
When my husband went into a permanent home there was relief all round. Immediate reaction was like a stable-kept horse who has a two-week 'holiday' in a field. I felt I would say 'whey hey' and rush round doing all the stuff I could not do for two years. Then I found I was in a state of limbo, inertia, almost like a cocooned insect.
Jul, in a post to the blog on 26th October gave me a fairly stiff lecture. So, I've invented a dopple-ganger, alter ego, what you will. She is called 'Sensible Person' (there was a reasonably sensible one in this body once) and she has to cope with 'Miss Inertia'.
They are S.P and M.I.
M.I. It's 9 a.m., I've overslept. I shall be late.
S.P. What for, and does it matter anyway?
M.I. The kitchen's a mess, none of the washing's dry, look at the office desk, and what about the two gardens?
S.P. You used to be a good organiser – you can't do it all at once – drink your coffee in peace then start logically.
M.I. (Old style). I've got the lyric of 'There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza'. My husband and his brother were always asking my advice, then finding any excuse not to do it. I was always muttering 'Well DO it dear Henry, DO it.
S.P. Now don't leave the kitchen half way and go up to the bedroom, panicking about the office on the way. No opening the kitchen door till it is to your liking.
M.I. I must check the e-mails first.
S.P. You checked them before breakfast, and if you go near that computer you will play Solitaire for half an hour and the kitchen will look even worse, then you'll start panicking about being late. You can go now, kitchen perfect – nice to have a coffee where nothing offends.
M.I. Now half-heartedly attacking bedroom. Wail. This washing will never dry.
S.P. Well, stop this silly economy, turn the radiators on – stuff will be dry in less than half an hour. Now, no computer – it's dry, gardening, and you are NOT tired.
M.I. Half an hour later, having attacked bits of the garden leaving several piles of rubbish. 'I can't cart all this round to the compost heap. Anyway, can't get at it'.
S.P. Well, clear that, then you can come back later.
M.I. Oh, I'd forgotten what a nice bit of brick work is in front of the compost heap, must sweep it up. (Does far too much gardening, near collapse.) Oh dear, I haven't been shopping, nothing in house, will have to go to supermarket.
S.P. (Refraining from making obvious remark). The Leclerc bakery does excellent sandwiches – go and get one, and one of those nice 'Bucheron' loaves, and sit down with a Kir and a Sudoku.
But M.I is incorrigible – brain does not have inertia – blog forms itself – better than Solitaire.
The photo is of my 'occupational therapy'. As things get tougher, the creations get more flamboyant, never sell them, and probably end up at Oxfam.
A Moodscope member.
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