Sweet and Low

I doubt that many of us will come out of this as heroes.  There are those who every day put their well-being at risk in order to do their jobs and while this is nothing but heroic, I suspect that they don't feel like heroes either.

Most days I feel like anxious fudge.  And, appropriately enough, I'm fudging most things.  Not quite as badly as some heads of state, but fairly badly.  Earlier this week I gave myself a talking to in the hope that breathing through the fudge would calm the anxiety, and allow me to work.  This was effective as long as I remembered to do it.  The trouble with being anxious fudge is that this who you are.  Fudge is not, for example, a serene mint cream.  We'd all like to be a mint cream. 

Most of most days is spent trying not to lay on the bed watching true crime documentaries, or something about Mary Magdalen, so that I can nap.  Right now the urge to nap is overwhelming.  This is all so damned exhausting.  I would give anything to go back to work, even it means wearing a pillowcase over my head.

Heroism on a very, very small scale will be just getting through this bit.  And then we can get back to fires and floods and Brexit for some light relief.