Last night, out of all the nights I've been diligently ensconced in sobriety, I really could've done with a drink.
I panicked last night. I panic a lot ok, I panic pretty easily. Aunty Peas hates being a loose cannon – going from deliriously happy to suddenly overwhelmingly angry from one minute to the next – but que sera, it fucken happens. It's panic stations over at Aunty Peas HQ – and there's really not a thing I can do about it. Sure, I could meditate (if my mind would stop thinking for just five and a half seconds), but the problem is panic sets in when there is no immediate solution to a problem.
The panic was about a project I am doing at the moment. A big one. One that until it is done, only then I can die. Sort of thing.
Yesterday was a big day. I had to present a content strategy manifesto to a team of Big Guns in a boardroom. A presentation that I have been working on for two weeks. I got through it, but was rather exhausted after it was over. All I wanted to do was have a glass of chilled white Fat Bastard in the garden outside.
A chilled glass of Fat Bastard out in the garden with the roses, after a long, hard day.
Christ. Just how many destressing bath crystals can one person gooi into a bath? (They work, but not as well as wine.) Then there was a frigging load shedding in the middle of my bath time – the one thing I actually live for these days – hurling my [haunted, mind you] flat into complete darkness.
I was alone in a haunted flat, in the darkness, panicking about a huge project. And the Boogie Man.
Depressed and anxiety-riddled. Just as my eczema was starting to move the fuck off my face.
So yes. Yesterday I really. Really. Could've done with a glass of wine. Or maybe winning the lottery or something.