LSB gets a Glasgow kiss

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It is 4.22am and I have a dream that I am in the staffroom at work and a Home Economics teacher is telling me to incorporate ‘short walks into my daily routine’ to lower my cholesterol. She demonstrates by taking the long way round to the water cooler via the fridge, and mentions a staff member whose husband had a stoke in his forties.* ‘I have just turned forty,’ I whisper, in a voice, tinged with fear. ‘I know,’ she replies. ‘Eat more runner beans and walk more.’ In a sleep addled panic I sit up suddenly and fall back into the pillows .

‘OUCH!’ says LSB. I have fallen onto him and my head has connected with his nose. ‘OUCH’ he says again. He is both sore and disconbobulated. ‘I had a dream,’ I said.

‘Where was it set : Glasgow?’ he replies.

He can be quite sharp, LSB, even when awoken by a headbutt at an hour most ungodly.

Hence, it is 4-45 and he is browsing on his phone with a disconsolate expression and I am blogging because if I don’t write now I probably won’t until next Sunday. It brings me some relief to blog because at least if I’m doing this I’m not just mulling through the list of calamitous thoughts going through my head.

I am so, so tired about feeling bad about everything. I feel bad about the essays I marked because I stuck rigidly to the mark scheme and upon reflection I think I was too harsh.  I feel bad that the Small Child needs to practise her reading more and  yesterday morning as we sat under a blanket on the sofa she said it would be nice if her mummy could just work ‘a wee bit less.’ Ouch. So many ouches in my world right now. If ouches came in physical form I would be black and blue.

I feel bad about drinking too much at dinner on Friday night and being hungover on Saturday morning. I feel anxious because when I drink I become garrulous and dominate conversations. I can’t remember if I did that but I know I talked A LOT. I asked my friend whether ‘over-talked’ or not and she tells me to stop being paranoid. I feel bad about being paranoid: it’s a sign of stress and I feel bad that I can’t manage my stress better.

I used to manage my stress by running but I haven’t been able to shoehorn it into my routine, plus my Achilles is fucked and I need to see a physio. I feel bad about this because it’s been weeks and I still haven’t made an appointment. I did a parkrun yesterday and as I waited to have my token scanned I didn’t know whether I was going to cry, vomit or have an impromptu bowel movement. I feared I may do all three.

‘Are you ok?’ asked a concerned LSB, who was the one scanning my token. ‘Don’t be nice to me,’ I say, ‘or I will cry.’

‘Errr, ok then,’ he replies. ‘Maybe just go and drink some tea?’

In the event I drink some tea and chatted to my friends and I felt better. I feel bad though that it is now 5.07am which is 19 hours after my run and I still haven’t stretched my legs and my calves are throbbing. I swore I would stretch. People with a banjaxed Achilles should stretch.

My heart rate has at least slowed down and I feel good that I have used my time constructively. ‘Here, have a quick read at this,’ I ask LSB. He scans it quickly, and nods before rolling over to go back to sleep. At least my writing is good for something.

*Not an actual person, a dream person whose dream husband had a stroke. Although in real life I imagine it happens a lot, especially if they’re teachers.

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