I was struck today by my own mortality. Well, kinda. It wasn’t as if I became ill or my life was threatened in any way.
We had a labour day public holiday in my state in Australia. I think it’s also called May Day. And I was reminded of being in Lisbon (Portugal), during May Day marches in 1995. I’d only recently arrived so still familiarising myself with the city, where I stayed for almost two months to study Portuguese.
I’d basically decided two weeks ago that I would indeed go to England in late July to attend the Old Peculier Crime Writers Festival. I decided it was a no-brainer. “Life’s short!” I told myself as I contemplated the idea of a 2-3 week holiday to look forward to. I sent an email to the organisers to book an accommodation package for the festival.
And then I checked some Covid-related insurance information. Read some fine-print. It seems not everything is covered and I pondered the likelihood of something unforeseen happening before then, or while I’m away.
My posts have been few and far between of late. Particularly my non-bookish posts, but even the book reviews.
I guess I’m still finding some balance though I’ve now been in my ‘new’ job for over 4 months. The uncertainty or unease I wrote about early this month remains but I’m trying to be more accepting of my moods and responses. Most of which are only evident to others because I share them publicly rather than grappling with them in silence. I’m not sure which is better. I know I get frustrated with those who do nothing but whinge, but then again we all know that many only share the good on social media and their lives seem charmed. Enviable, but also inaccessible in some ways.
Anyhoo, my blogging friend Denyse is reigniting a linkup every couple of weeks so I figured I should share something today and am going with the usual ‘check-in’ post.
Dear Diary
Entries like this seem to have become increasingly regular over the past 3 or 4 years. Any resilience I once had seems to have diminished to the point that the smallest thing can send me over the edge. I’ve always been a catastrophiser, but usually know better and rein in my overthinking. I can logically work my way through the dark thoughts or sense of overwhelm and even laugh at myself for being such a drama queen.
I can’t decide whether January felt like it lasted a year, or if it flew by? A mixture of both I suspect, depending on my mood on any particular day.
In some ways it felt like an extension of the last couple of years. Covid uncertainty along shortages of stuff (like rapid antigen tests, panadol and toilet paper – AGAIN!). Plus the normal-plentiful things. Gluten-free bread shelves, for example have been empty for a few weeks.
I’ve now shared a few posts promoting controversial debates. Such as global warming and peace in the Middle East. Just kidding. I’ve pondered whether you’re a shoes-inside wearer, like pockets in clothes and think soup is a real meal or not.
And there was the earth-shattering discourse on whether you are a PJs or a nightie kind of person.*
I have plenty more of these dilemmas up my sleeve because, as a keen purveyor of the human condition I tend to overanalyse ponder whether my thinking and behaviour is normal, or if I am weird and others… not-weird.
This time two years ago we could not have imagined what lay before us. Although there was some chatter about a virus besieging those on the other side of the world, most of us were complacent. The notion of lockdowns, compulsory mask-wearing and daily reports on case numbers beyond our comprehension.
I can only assume this will all be behind us one day and we’ll talk of it as generations before us did of world wars and plagues.
A ‘memory’ from 2010 popped up in my Facebook feed on the weekend. In it I was commenting on the excellent service we’d had from a Brisbane hospital while my father was having six weeks of radiotherapy.
My mum and dad alternated weeks with my brother and I, and the hospital arranged night visits so we could take them there. My mother was comfortable driving around Brisbane at the time but the hospital is in the inner city and with new tunnels and bypasses it was a bit confusing to reach
I suspect I accidentally clicked on an ad or sponsored post for sleepwear the other day as now my feeds (well, Facebook and Instagram) are full of ads for nighties and pyjamas.
Pretty floral and pastelly things seem to be ‘in’ again with kimonos or similar draped over the top. Bring back the vintage silk wraps with feathers and fluffy stilettos a-la- Doris Day, Grace Kelly et al I say.