This week has proved that I am my own worst enemy when it comes to worrying about nothing. I managed to wind myself into near hysterical mode simply because I lack patience. Forget making a mountain out of a molehill, I made an entire range. My superstitious Scorpio went into overdrive, is it because I moved the lion statue? Was Wookie unhappy about all the boxes in the front room? (Wookie is a carved wooden sculpture of an elderly Chinese man who gives me the heeby-jeebies but Tony loved him). Was the universe out to get me all over again? Of course, it wasn’t but my mind wasn’t to be reasoned with. Somehow I had managed to get the thought of losing the house sale buried into my sleep-deprived brain all because I didn’t get an immediate reply to a text message. Naturally when I did get the reply which proved I lack any form of zen, I messaged back, “no worries”, “glad things are okay your end”, “honestly don’t rush on my account”. My secret neurosis are safe.
It all started when I realised I hadn’t heard anything from the buyer in regards to his search for a replacement solicitor (our furloughed friends had abandoned us). In fact, I hadn’t heard anything from anyone so I started to get just a little bit nervous. Any sane person I’m sure would consider the Corona cause and effect and that little bit of Governmental guideline about not moving until they say it’s okay to but not me. No, I stepped on the panic alarm. They say moving is stressful but not moving seems even worse to me especially when I have no control over anything. I hate not being in control, another personality failing. Without having Tony to share my angst with, I had many long and argumentative talks with myself about how ridiculous I was being. To top it all, I needed to put a deposit on the motorhome which I didn’t want to do if everything was going pear-shaped. You can imagine my relief and internal ‘I told you so’s’ when the buyer replied, albeit with the same feelings of solicitor stress but “could he possibly come round with his brother to get some ideas about the gardens?” I did an inner whoop dance.
So we had a socially distanced conversation post perusing and I discovered that he too had been widowed five years ago. And his wife had died at home, just like my Tony did. He’s leaving the home he had bought with his wife to start a new life at chez Knollys just as I am about to do the same en France. As we discussed his plans for the gardens which sounded very Monty Don, he told me that he couldn’t wait to turn the annexe back into a gym, just as it had been for Tony. I got this sort of funny Karma feeling at this, I could almost feel T smile at the idea that his little fitness studio would live on and that his beloved garden would start to blossom once again. Hello, happy place once more….
“There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.” ( Ben Williams)
Widow plus woofs 