Naked Fear

I have a fan.  It was the last reasonably priced fan with any sort of muscle in Brico and it is mine.  I am naked, with the fan on.  I almost didn't get it because all the fans were in the window, and it meant talking to the staff.  Because it was the last one, they thrust it unboxed into my hands.  Puis-je prendre un sac, s’il vous plaît, I asked slightly disbelievingly.  So they found a little bag into which the bottom of the fan just fit, a bit like those strange mankini things.

I have the fear a bit at the moment.  This may seem odd after having merrily deleted an entire UK life and having settled like a nesting hen on a completely unknown city.  If I was going to get the fear, shouldn’t it have been long ago?  Perhaps the day I handed in notice on my job and flat?  Or the day I sat on the Eurostar feeling like the air was sucking out of me?  Or any day in the last few months when it seemed that ever after would be measured in nappies?

Maybe.  But I suppose fear is what happens when you get something and don’t want to lose it.  Or doubt whether you should have it in the first place. There were three interviews to get this job, but there is part of me that will forever be raising a dubious, pencilled eyebrow.  Perhaps everyone feels this way deep down, and sits there raising an eyebrow at their own achievements.