I was having a bit of a sit down this morning. I was still in my pyjamas and was greeting the dawn in my usual way of muttering “Top of the dawn to you, Lord Morning, you cheerful git. You could have phoned to say you were coming early, and don’t pull that ‘lengthening days of Spring’ crap on me because I’m not in the mood for it, now I’ve been reminded we lose an hour of sleep/productive insomnia this weekend on account of it.”
So me and The Dawn were just chatting with him mostly saying “tweet” and “sparkle” and “promise of a whole new day” type stuff and me being a sleepy ingrate, when I saw an ant weaving a complicated path across my foot. I watched it for a bit as it went round my ankle a few times, as if searching for a lost pair of spectacles or something and, gradually, it dawned on me that I couldn’t feel a thing.
I panicked immediately, of course. What was wrong with the nerves in my leg? With all that scampering about, the ant must be traversing at least a few nerve endings. Why couldn’t I feel him and them? Was he an unusual kind of goat-like mountain ant with deft and remarkable footwork which allowed him to place his 6 tiny feet exactly where my nerves wouldn’t detect him and cause me to brush him off. No, stupid girl. They don’t exist. There can be no other explanation other than I have woken up with some horrible disease which is attacking the nerves in my legs and causing them to be numb. This was clearly the case, but I am a very scientifically minded problem-child-bride and so I very carefully moved my hand down in a footwards direction to test my numb-leg theory. I felt it, the troublesome ant was banished to the carpet and all was fine again.
The world is divided many ways, obviously, but one of them seems to be between those that think nothing will bad happen to them and those that just assume something bad will. I am one of the latter and don’t consider myself to have any special immunity against anything really, except maybe wild literary success and mass adulation for getting us all ‘to somehow get along’ using only two metaphors, an eggwhisk and the ability to change two pooey nappies at one time, one hand each. At this point the nappy thing is one of my few remaining marketable skills, having been out of the workplace now for these several years with the girls.
Normally my hypochondria is reserved for my children but human mortality looked us all in the eye last night at quiz night, when we learned that, of the 8 of us, three close friends’ of friends, one under 60, one under 50 and one under 40 had all died in the last week. Makes you think a bit, that does.
None of us really needs bad news to ponder on death and mortality but, all the same, after the fleet-footed wee ant this morning, and my over-reaction to him, I vowed to be a little kinder to Lord Morning when he comes a-calling, ‘cos I’m lucky he does an’ stuff, and I pledged only to call him a git from time to time. Although these bloody cheepy birds are just asking for a ten gauge shot-gun on some of these dawns.