It’s that time of the month, year or whatever it is again, which makes me want to hide inside the hermitage and not venture out into the great unknown. After several weeks and ridiculously long hours working on another gardening makeover and a couple of TV pilots, I’ve most definately crawled back under my stone and intend on remaining here until further notice.
I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house in these moods. Only last week I took a bus, yes, public transport, to a clients. It didn’t put me in the greatest mood from the start but in my rather delicate frame of mind, seeing an old lady desperately staggering down the street, her trousers and knickers around her ankles, I simply couldn’t cope. Not one soul stopped to help her and I was stuck on this damn bus, surrounded by the elderly, and I thought I actually just wanted to die. For, leaving the house when in one these moments leaves me open to coersion of dangerous thoughts. Thought of ‘I don’t want to get older’. Thoughts of “what’s the bleedin point if I could end up with my pants at my knees, needing help and the human race blanks me from their radar.”
And to be fair. Hermiting isn’t all bad. It isn’t non productive. I’ve written more of the novel. I’ve applied to be an About.com guide. I’ve done all my writing work and even taken on some extra to help my editor out of a tight spot. Yes. Staying in the hermitage protects my mental state and still pays the bills. I wouldn’t have it any other way.