Unsheathing The Mean Streak

Everyone has the odd bad day, no matter how fabulous the philosophy or the view or the shoes. 
It didn’t start badly. There was a chill mist opaquing a fat sun, which sight I smiled at as I drove to do my bringing up Baby shift. My grey check lace ups were looking cool, pressing the pedals in my clunky quirky car. Baby was hilarious. Today she crawled out of the kitchen after raiding the washing machine, holding a clean vest in her mouth like a small animal off to cozy up a den. At home, Mr and I sat outside with our diaries and espressos and talked dates while a buzzard patrolled the fields. 
I have had some emails back from letting agencies, because we might need to move. This is the first prang into my usual perkiness. Impending upheaval and empty pockets, this gets to the crux of the slump. I am allowed a certain quota of slumpage, I tell myself, even if I don’t like it. What I am not allowed to do is keep any, or dump it on other people.

At this point, I cheer myself up with some confrontational memories. Every now and then, someone will manage to provoke my ill temper. It is a rare and fabulous sight- if you ever see me rumbling like a pre-emptive volcano, be enterprising and sell ringside tickets. One should use one’s powers for good, but it is nice, on days like these, to recall exactly how powerful one can be. Potent enough to burn off all slumps, and most of the fools. 


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