‘Huh?’ said I, deafly.
‘Handbrake,’ said James, louder and firmer.
‘It’s on,’ said I, reassuringly.
‘NOT HARD ENOUGH!’ said James, yanking it up.
‘Oh,’ said I, frowning. ‘Were we going backwards?’
‘Oh Mum. You’re not alright, are you?’
Never were truer words spoken. I’m not remotely alright. I’m alwrong. I have this…lurgy thingy. Cold, virus, wotnot. Came out of nowhere last week. So I attacked it with my usual weapon of choice – chomping my way through a large bottle of Acerola C in, er, about 36 hours. And it went. Except, well, it sort of snuck away for 36 hours before coming back…with reinforcements. Ninja attack troops. Bastards.
I’m a total mess. Everything aches and I mean everything – yeah even my eyebrows. Ears are playing some kind of ambient composition for high pitched drills. Eyes are stuck on waterfall mode. Abdomen is doing the monster PMS meets gastric flu dance.
The other day I found I still had my copy of Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life, which rather surprised me, as I thought I’d flung it out in one of my cynical phases. And I know a lot of you are really deeply beyond cynical when it comes to this kind of malarkey. But, oddly, most times when I have some kind of niggle or ache, it does seem to be my body telling me something. Sooo, what does Louise have to say about my plight? Well, I opened the book at random, kinda hoping for a quick fortune telling type answer but it turned out to be more orifice than oracle. ‘The anus is as beautiful as the ear,’ said Louise. Huh? Actually, my arse is about the one bit that is behaving itself quite nicely, thank you. So, no shortcuts then. I flicked back and forth and came up with a list so long that it would make me as much as an emotional mess as a physical one which, of course, is perfectly fitting as body, mind, emotions, soul are all one. Right?
Hey ho, nonny no.
‘You really don’t look good, Mum,’ said James, scrutinizing me as we finally made it to the house, into the light. He looked almost impressed. ‘In fact you look pretty scary. You should go to bed.’
Ah but there’s the rub. It (the cold, not my child) obviously knew that Adrian was going to be away, in Zagreb eating bear salami (yeah, I know) and freaking out about atmospheric pressure (there was a storm). So, when James comes home from school, I don’t have much choice but to stagger round like the living dead of Manchester morgue, doing what has to be done.
|So says Louise...|
But then I think, well, hey (Hay?), maybe there’s a reason for this too. If Adrian were here it would be noisy and stressy. He’d be all ‘you need to do this or that or eat this or that.’ And maybe all I needed to do was to stop, eat a lot of beetroot (my cure for everything if Acerola fails) and lie quietly back on my butterfly chair listening to mantras. We have found, the SP and I, that if I have the chair on its lowest setting (ie with my head nearly touching the floor and my feet in the air) that he can easily jump up and stretch himself right down my body, thus warming up four chakras all at the same time. It’s…soothing.
Anyhow, Adrian’s back tomorrow so presumably it will obligingly vanish on his return. And, meanwhile, the lovely people at Aromatherapy Associates are sending me a rescue package of Breathe essence. So at least, if nothing else, I know I won’t smell funny as well as looking crap. J