Mountains, A Tesco Delivery and a Right Big Tantrum
The ‘When Things Go to Shit’ Edition
Sometimes it does not matter how hard you plan. It does not matter how many ducks you have in a row. It does not matter how sorted you are in life and how many wellbeing tactics you have in your personal toolkit. Sometimes things just go to shit. The universe has other plans for you and you have to work really feckin hard not to have a right big tantrum before you can even delve into your wellbeing toolkit to right the balance again.
Take last week as an example.
Last Friday:
I was all set to go to Chamonix for the weekend to celebrate our two year wedding anniversary with the husband. I was really looking forward to it. Life has felt a bit hard due to lots of schizzle going on and I was hanging in there for a weekend away from it all.
I successfully sorted all of the CoVID schizzle out. I had nailed the clear plastic wallets full of the relevant information to get from Manchester to Geneva and through to France. Check in was a dream. Through security. Lovely breakfast in the airport.
Proud - no smug - in our ability to manage this new fangled thing called foreign travel.
We wandered lazily to the gate and with every step I took, I got closer to a feeling of calm, leaving a trial of angst ridden thoughts in my wake.
Arrived at the gate, just at the right time, no queue (thankfully), gives my passport to lovely gate people and walks towards the plane beckoning my name.
And then a big red cross comes up on the screen with the words - REJECTED - I was declined entry to Geneva.
Not allowed to travel as I had less than three months on my passport. Now I knew that my passport was expiring but I also knew that I plenty of time to get to France and back - and jeez it’s only France isn’t it? Our friendly neighbour.
NO WAY. NO HOW. I was not getting in.
(Are you all mentally checking when your next holiday is booked and trying to remember what the expiry date is on your passport?)
I was then escorted on the ultimate walk of shame through the airport. I tried to convince myself that I looked like a VIP flanked by Easyjet staff as I was marched through arrivals but I mainly think people thought I’d been removed from the flight for something bad.
(Picture of me in the mountains of Chamonix when my passport was valid for travel. Salt. Wounds.
I had a right big tantrum and spent the weekend hiding under my duvet, ordering online. Ordering everything online but then I also realised we had no food in. The husband had gone on to Chamonix to spend our anniversary out there sorting his flat out there* (another reason we were going).
I successfully ordered a lot of clothes and a Tesco shop. And then I pulled myself together and decided to go to Costco - cos that’s what you do isn’t it?
Halfway round Costco with my trolley full of things I didn’t realise I needed and the 19 yo calls.
‘Mum; you do know you that there’s a Hello Fresh order on the doorstep don’t you?”
Me: ‘Erm, forgot I’d ordered.”
Promptly puts half the trolley back, obviously still spends a fortune (Costco is the equivalent of IKEA for food and, well, everything you can’t buy at IKEA).
I returned home and hastily changed the order from Tesco due to mountain of food pending arrival. I had sorted it.
I was no longer under my duvet, I’d had my tantrum and my passport has been renewed. I was ready to start again.
Monday evening arrives and I was sitting there starting to think the Tesco delivery was a little bit late just as the Tesco man rings.
The conversation goes something like this:
Him: Hi. It’s the Tesco delivery driver. I can’t see your house. Can you help me?
Me: (looks out of the window). Hi there. I was just thinking you were a bit late - I can’t see you. Are you sure you’re on the right street?
Him: Yes. Just can’t see the numbers on the houses. Just the names.
Me: Oh how strange. I don’t think any of our houses have actual names (slight alarm bell triggers in addled mind). Ours definitely has the number on it. You are in Eccles aren’t you? There’s two streets with the same name not too far apart.
Him: I’m in Devon love. I can’t drive up to Manchester now. It will take me six hours. And it’s out of our area.
Turns out I ordered the shop for the holiday cottage. In Devon. Not Manchester where we actually live.
The moral of this sorry tale is simple; sometimes things f*ck up, sometimes you simply need to hide under your duvet and do a big shop (preferably delivered to the right address) and sometimes you need to realise that you have too many balls juggling and you need to stop a bit, rest a bit and recharge.
I’m obviously not recharging in the mountains, but I have stepped back, dug deep in my wellbeing toolbox and I’m recharging. Recharging whilst wearing the new wellington boots and ball gown I ordered while the husband was celebrating two years of togetherness in the mountains.
*drinking and gigging
