Life must be filled up

I had no power from Friday afternoon until Sunday lunchtime and it was absolute hell. The house got colder and colder and by Sunday morning, I was reduced to lying on the sofa wearing a woolly hat, with blankets and two hot water bottles. The so-called power helpline used to be just that. Now, you get an automated voice saying they’re very busy and will you please get off the line and look at their website. Duh! I now have to throw away a lot of food. I don’t expect to get a penny off my bill.

I’ve already had to be outside this morning because a chap has arrived to fix up my new safety mirror for getting the car on the road (the old one had rusted away at the back and was just dangling). OMG, the bitter wind! I’m so good at catastrophising that I’m already half expecting another outage. Moan over.

Yesterday morning I had my first grocery delivery for three weeks and got everything I asked for. I’d been craving fresh vegetables and fell upon salad for lunch and greens with supper.
When I look out of one of my upstairs windows, I see in the distance a hedge of blackthorn in flower.
When I draw the curtains at dusk, the whole garden is glowing with pale primroses.
Yesterday evening, I watched my DVD of The Enchanted April. Perfect escapism.
I had to wake myself at midnight to book another delivery slot and spent much less time in a queue than I did last week.
This morning, I phoned about renewing my motor insurance. After reading all the emails the company has been sending me, I was expecting a very long wait. By great luck, I got straight through to speak to someone. This was a very pleasant surprise.
I’m about to go out into the garden without a coat on, to deadhead some more daffodils and do other small jobs.

Small things.

Promoting Indistractable, a new book by Nir Eyal, Bloomsbury Books send me an email containing the following unlikely-sounding ‘facts’.

67% of men and 25% of women would rather electrocute themselves than be alone with their thoughts
(Who did they ask, for goodness sake?)
Every time you get distracted, it takes over 23 minutes on average to regain your focus
(How was this counted?)
Digital detoxes don’t work! Learn how to use technology to keep you focused on your goals
(What exactly is a digital detox? Does it mean keeping off your phone and social media? Easy for me, ha ha.)

I’ve really had enough of self-help books. Sometimes I want to ask these self-appointed gurus: why not give God a try?

I borrowed Coming Back to Me by Marcus Trescothick (with Peter Hayter) from the library and read it in about five minutes. For those who don’t know, Marcus Trescothick is a former England Test cricketer, a lovely batsman on form, whose international career was wrecked by panic attacks which made it impossible for him to travel overseas to play for his country. Test cricket is *unbelievably tough*. Those guys are gladiators. It’s a brave effort to try to put on record what the poor man has been through. This is a ghosted memoir so we’re not looking for great writing or insights. It’s also, of course, full of statistics. Like any professional cricketer, Tresco can tell you exactly how many runs he scored in x match and just how y got him out in the next one.

The book arouses both pity and anger. Anger at the cruelty of the press and the ineptitude of the authorities in dealing with it. Anger that mental health problems still carry a stigma. Picture this headline: ‘Flintoff ruled out of next Test due to ankle injury.’ Routine, eh? Now this one: ‘Trescothick withdrawn from next Test due to depression and anxiety.’ Unthinkable, apparently. Which is why the authorities screwed up so badly when Trescothick returned home unexpectedly from the Indian tour which proved too much for him. A simple statement at the time would have prevented the ensuing hounding by the press and the hurtful and untrue stories about his marriage. Press statements did later refer to his 'stress-related illness'. I’m not usually keen on celebrities parading their suffering but Trescothick could have done a few people some favours by publishing his story.

It’s interesting to see what Geoffrey Boycott wrote on the subject in this Telegraph article from 2006. You’d expect him to be the 'pull yourself together, lad' type, wouldn’t you? Not at all.