Hope is a beautiful thing, but sometimes it’s also pretty daft.
I spent most of the night wrapped in four blankets, shaking and chattering beneath the duvet. I just kept telling myself that with a little bit of sleep I would feel so much better in the morning.
I wasn’t necessarily expecting 100%, but I really hoped to feel anything but worse.
It’s raining, it’s miserable, I’ve got to drive on the M4 and I haven’t yet mastered sitting up.
Yuck upon a double yuck!
Bursting with all the drugs that breastfeeding will allow, and with steady words from Hoobiz I somehow make it all the way to Goliath HQ. It wasn’t faultless: I got beeped at twice, once for being in the wrong lane and once for going too slowly, I went around one roundabout 3 times in a row and didn’t often leave 3rd gear, but I made it.
Under normal circumstances I’d be elated, but it seems that that would require too much energy. It’s strange then, that I’ve just enough oomph to torture myself with terrifying visions of the actual journey on Tuesday.
What an absolute twit! That was the whole point of this exercise. I needed to do a dry run so that I would able to do the real thing. Now I’m in a complete sweaty panic. Part fever and part rage at the fact that cars were ever invented.
The niggly voice in my head that I can’t pass off as whispers of delirium is the one that keeps sneering,
‘But you were perfectly well last week and you chose not to bother.’
(Demonic laughter)
‘That was a bit silly wasn’t it? Honestly, when will you learn?’
(More demonic laughter)
‘Procrastination never pays. Just dilly-dally all your days.’
Shut- up! It’s not ideal, but even if there’s not a reason for everything, then I’m sure one can be found.
Who knows, me and my little red car might have been of some use to someone. Perhaps somewhere there’s a bog post inspired by my limping down the motorway – ‘Ban on Sunday drivers’
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