So, following on from my slightly lachrymose post last time, I took a good hard look at everything that had happened in September, and how I’d reacted and decided that unless I relaxed more, let things go a little more, generally went with the flow (man), I’d end up in a corner, rocking back and forth, whimpering about ‘societies’ and ‘building reports’ and ‘career development plans’ and ‘dying-alone-and-being-eaten-by-cats’.*

In response to that realisation, I have unleashed my inner Doris Day. Oh yes. She has been released from her box and is currently waging war with the gremlin on my shoulder. For example:

Gremlin: it’s cold and dark and you don’t feel very well and you’re late for work and this is the third morning this week your child has gone in with money for lunch rather than nutritious sandwiches and why are you even bothering. (at this point he runs out of breath rather than things to berate me for)

Doris: “ah but the birds are singing outside and you remembered to feed your sourdough starter last night and tonight there are crayfish for tea.” Thus she effectively nuts the gremlin with her cast-iron hairsprayed ‘up-do’ of buoyancy, before sandbagging him off my shoulder with her patent-leather purse of happiness. Not even the incessant rain gets in her way, merely bouncing off her

This works to a certain extent, although I fear my head may explode with all the enforced positivity. Possibly Doris’s voice will get higher and shriller and stuck on “but the birds are singing but the birds are singing but the birds are singing,” until it does.

And I have spent the past week tackling a giant monster from the nether regions of hell. Otherwise known as the ‘Back Office At Work’. A phrase most likely to strike terror into my heart is ‘I’m just going into the back office to look for something’. When I say that this place may kill me, it’s being buried beneath one of the teetering piles of boxes that I’m envisaging. Filled with a smorgasbord of pottery shards, fossil bits, flints, papers, photos, ledgers, glass slides, defunct cameras and the occasional skull, these boxes are my Matterhorn**, or they were. Progress has been made, one box defeated at a time, and the chance to just play quietly amongst the archives has been most soothing, not to mention surprising at times. Indentures from 1714, minerals in raw form, Elgar’s signature on a letter. I work in an astonishing place.

One that allows me to get on with the day whilst listening to Dusty Springfield and feverishly, pointedly ignoring the fact I have Odd Socks on. Because I got dressed in the dark.

Yeah, my job kicks ass.

So I’ll be back here in November – enjoy your Halloween, people. Sugar fangs are NOT optional.

*I’m not actually concerned about my eventual corpse being eaten by cats on account of the fact that I won’t know anything about it. And I don’t intend to have cats when I’m old because I’ll want to be off and doing things. But apparently as a Single Person in my late 30s, I am supposed to be worried about it.

**And as near to mountain climbing as you will ever get me. I’m not even that keen on walking slightly up hill, let alone donning crampons and a helmet. And altitude does terrible things to my hair.

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