Had to have a little cry today. No, really, it was just that, a few trickly tears falling at my temples and into my hair while I was lying flat out on the grass verge by the industrial unit. The security guard scooted back inside, scared. Through my liquidy fuzzy vision I could detect his lurking shape, peering at me shiftily from his safe place behind the venetian blinds.
It was one of those moments I am sure you all know well. You trek across the Andes with a map of Swansea as your guide, fight the mutant-headed monsters, save your space ship from almost certain annihilation, put the laundry on, and cycle across the Gobi desert without a drink. Then, when it is all done, and it is the moment you can look back, feel you have reached accomplishments in life, now you can rest, and open a packet of crisps, then the crisp packet won't open.
Why won't the crisp packet open? Why can't I open it? What is wrong with me? Open, damn you, open!
Then, utterly defeated by the last, most tiny circumstance, you have to have a little lie down on the grass verge outside the industrial complex and break down in a little soft cry while the security guard thinks Why does the nutter always have to find me?
There wasn't actually any crisp packet or map of Swansea, but the morning was just like that, where many tiny events and a couple of huge ones conspire to effortlessly shave off great lumps of my life in five second bursts, so when we arrive at Festive Road Arts HQ for the kid workshop on making giant puppets, and we had forgotten the bike locks, and the security guard wouldn't let us bring the bikes into the lobby, then for a brief, frozen moment, despite all the problems I have solved, I cannot see a solution, there is no exit, except to give up the workshop, and the parade to come, to cycle all the way home again where all my efforts and endeavours will finish in a big, final, full stop. In anticipation of that exhaustion and ultimate defeat, let me have a lie down with my little cry right here on your grass verge.
But I have a saying in this household which works well with my fortune cookie philosophy. When I need comfort I close my eyes and incant my special words, wrapping myself in their wisdom like a child holds a smelly blankie.
It will be alright when we find a drapers.
Yes! Things can turn out alright! If only I look at my problems from a different angle, maybe from the perspective of one accustomed to repairing nineteenth century garments, and in need of a little light twill, then things can turn out alright! I only need to maintain perspective and be resourceful.
And they did. Things turned out alright. Kind people helped. The security guard was shamed into allowing the bikes inside where they sat unobtrusively in the little alcove next to the door. Shark, Squirrel and Tiger missed only the health and safety instructions to the session (do not stab anyone with willow; do not stab yourself with willow...), and I was able to cycle home, where I could retreat and regroup to face whatever tomorrow would like to bring.