The cats stabbed my sleep with their sharp little feet and I rumbled a few things over in my head.
I chickened out of a social engagement last night; I got all the way there, and came all the way back.
I didn't know why, and then I realised; of late, my calling card has become my misfortunes, my problems like costume jewellery, each one sparkling with a different malevolent hue.
These awful things take on a competitive quality (all names fictional apart from my own):
"What's your name? "
"Hundred-Problem-Helen"
"Hi Hundred-Problem-Helen, I'm Thousand-Problem-Theodore"
Meanwhile, Ten-Problem-Tessa and Five-Problem-Fiona look on, disconcerted; you mean , it can get worse?
So it's time to pull up my socks like the Girl Guide I was, polish my teeth with the discounted electric toothbrush I bought in Tescos a few days ago (don't know why I shop there- the horrible image of Lady Porter in her greedy yellow suit flashes into sight every time), eat strawberrie,s get over myself and get on with things!
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