Pampering

On Tuesday, my day was thus:

Shermanbury to Henfield, to Shermanbury to Horsham, to Shermanbury to Upper Beeding to Shoreham to Steyning, to Shermanbury to Henfield to Shermanbury to Cowfold to Shermanbury, to Small Dole to Shermanbury.

Maybe this is normal? And I don’t really mind, especially as the Steyning bit involved a free lunch. But on Tuesday, I was definitely feeling that my carbon footprint was slightly excessive.

I dash about a lot. Sometimes I wonder if all the things that I do are, you know, strictly necessary.* And the answer is: no. I am almost sure I could use my time better and thus have 1. a tidier house 2. a more regularly updated blog 3. a catalogued photograph library and 4. just generally more time to do washing, cooking, shopping, housework and gardening. I may even have completed a successful book or two (unlikely, but definitely something to consider).

All of the above get done, to a point, but somehow, they’re never finished, and the cooking part is just painful. Rather like the clearing up afterwards. Maybe if  I stopped dashing about, maybe I’d learn to love the art of cooking – the spending of hours at a stove, reading a recipe and following the instructions. I guess that could be fun..? For some people. In my brain, anything that involves concentration for more than nineteen or twenty minutes is out. My attention will be elsewhere.

Maybe this is why I find myself dashing about a  lot. With a brain like mine, I need to keep it moving. It’s prone to festering if given the chance. Thus I dash about,  doing things that people may or may not consider worthwhile, depending on one’s perspective.

The Saturday before last, I dashed about a bit, as usual. By the time I sat down in a heap to eat my delicious meal (our favourite Tesco curry-in-a-box), and had a large glass of wine, I was  quite ready for it. I’d saved myself (-this was after all Crispanuary for me, and my usual aperitif of fried starch snacks pre-dinner was off-limits), and was throwing my food down at breakneck speed like the Olympic eater I am. The wine went down quickly too, and I started to relax.

Relaxing is one thing, but I think I soon went beyond that. I began to feel iffy and fuzzy, wondering (horror of horrors) if I’d be able to finish my jalfrezi! I pushed on through. Big Seymour had microwaved it for me beautifully, after all.

Then, for some reason, curry achieved, I found a bag of fruit pastilles in the Secret Sweetie Stash and had a couple, followed by anther couple, and so on, ad infinitum, until – oops! There were no further pastilles left to gorge upon.

Well! At this point jalfrezi, malbec and pure, unadulterated sugar (with a strong presence of chopped onion – Big Seymour does like to vajazzle his microwave curries) were all reacting beautifully in my tum and instead of feeling sick, I think I was having a kind of “glu-coma/glucosoma”.** I needed to go and lie down. The clearing up of the kitchen could wait. I needed to be horizontal, before I fell over.

It’s weird – I haven’t eaten sweets like that for years. Pregnancy put me off them, weirdly. But there they were, gone and I boom! I’m half dead. In days of yore, when I was a young teacher, I used to have my evening meal, then often treat myself to a bag of Starburst Joosters (whatever happened to those?), and promptly have a kip on the sofa before going for a run.  But that was pre-kids, when I still lived at home, and … oh! Twenty years ago…

Anyway, there I was, having just managed to check the oven was off and the back door was locked, prostrate on my bed, lying still. Heaven! Just what I needed, until…

Little Seymour Number Two found me. She was bringing forth the face mask she’d given me for Christmas. How about now? she wondered. I didn’t have the strength to resist, and my groan was silent.

Then, Mini Seymour arrived, wanting a piece of the action, at the same time as Big Seymour chose to retire too. Why now? Why are there four people in my previously empty bedroom? And what’s with all the noise?

Typically, Boy Seymour appeared, as well! He hopped on the bed and proceeded to regale us with one of his pointless anecdotes.I nodded and grunted in a few places, but I couldn’t tell you what he was banging on about. Thankfully, he seemed satisfied with this level of attention, and prattled on without getting cross for once.

Mini Seymour was only stopped from executing her gymnastics on the bed by Big Seymour who decided that he too would like a face mask, so she delighted in obliging. My eyes had been shut for about forty minutes at this point so what she used on his skin, I can only guess. It could have been Ajax for all I know. Meanwhile, to give her her due, Number Two was actually doing a very good job on me. I was too semi-conscious to fidget or to try to get up and do stuff, thereby complying rather well.  (Normally, my brain would have been sending me on a different mission as I’d been still for more than nineteen minutes). It was only when she moved on to my feet that I realised I was still seriously sugar-laden. She had unearthed a “foot mask” in the drawer – lovely in the summer when you can’t get your feet cool, but in January when all the blood is in your stomach, the application of a cold, wet plastic sock with “tea tree” in is not a pleasant experience. I could only flinch as the odd, cold, floppy boots were applied to my cadaverous feet. And thus I endured it.

By now, Big Seymour’s face mask had worked a treat, and he was snoring. Loudly. My arms wouldn’t work to bop him. I was trapped by wet plastic socks, sugar-bound muscles and a snoring man, with three kids starting to argue about me.

In the end, I felt better. So I got up and left them to it.

The pampering had clearly worked.

 (A friend shared this the other day. It made me feel better about all the half-done jobs that my brain won’t let me finish.Thank you, Dr Glenn Doyle.)

*I am now 100% sure my dashing about is totally ineffective as a strategy. This was confirmed the other day when  I completely forgot that I needed to take Number Two and Boy to the opticians after work. Oops. Their Covid catch-up appointments have now been pushed back even further.

** Like glaucoma, only different. Essentially, a sugar coma, which, oddly, is a bit like diabetes – which can contribute towards glaucoma. Apparently. (I made it up.)