Fortunately, Other Jess turned up this morning with a tub of vanilla ice-cream and the words ‘iced coffee’ on her lips. I cancelled my doctor’s appointment and wrote myself an excuse note.
So the tap continues to leak, the lights mostly don’t work, May Blossom won’t get into kindy and thus won’t go to a good school, or university and will have to do one of the professions on my Banned Professions List (top billing goes to Tobacconist, followed by Racing Car Driver). Full summer will hit and we will once again have no air-conditioner and I will blame H. No one will X-ray my tummy and tell me there’s nothing wrong except I have swallowed a ball of stress.
The world will stop turning, the falcon won’t be able to hear the falconer*. Things fall apart. But it’s no big deal, in the greater scheme of things. And don’t worry, I didn’t remember the whole of that Yeats poem. I was just struck by one line from it so I Googled it and now I am fixated on it. I’ll tell you what, I could handle twenty centuries of stony sleep right about now.