Worms and Holes

I'm afraid I've been a little absent lately. I disappeared down a worm-hole, full of adjectives, adverbs, punctuation and paragraphs and ended up feeling like the worm in a video I was sent yesterday. It was demonstrating the effect of alcohol and it wasn't pretty. The poor inebriated invertebrate passed out instantly; although it was proved to be an effective alternative to pyrantel embonate.

I finally wriggled out of my tunnel yesterday—and although I hadn't been drinking—I felt a little sluggish and minus a few billion neurons, so I decided to try aqua aerobics. Probably not an obvious choice, but it was so much fun despite lacking a 60s style bathing-cap. To top off a great morning, I also went to see the movie The Translators—with my hubby, a glass of sparking and some white-chocolate jellies—and today my vertebra started to reappear.

Unfortunately, they quickly shrunk away again this afternoon and I was so disappointed. I'd planned to do a lot of practice today, then my troublesome finger started to bleed and I had to stop. It sounds dreadful, but my third finger has often been a casualty of nail polish and ill-positioned clippers.

However, there is a bigger problem. You see, while I was down in my burrow digging through my manuscript—thinking of Moles' house from the Wind in the Willows and giant peaches—I neglected my violin. Although I'd been doing a little practice every day, a lot was left until the last minute and with a concert tomorrow; I'm now in a bit of a jam.

What happens in these sticky situations is that my old friend Anxiety returns with an entourage of mates. He'd been hanging around for a while, but tonight he went out on the town with Self-sabotage, Guilt and Mr Perfectionist. They've just arrived home, drunk as skunks and are now nibbling on nuts and pickles out of the jar, making lots of noise and complaining that the fridge is empty again. I want to kick them out of the house, but they've been poking my gizzards and have invited the magpies over for breakfast.

So naturally I asked Agatha what to do. She worked in a dispensary, and as a former pharmacy assistant myself, I wondered if a little diazepam might calm me down. Agatha said no, and she reminded me that I don't take medicines; even when I need them and I would be much better off just putting things into perspective.

What do you mean? I asked. Well, she said, you might feel like the world is ending, but it's not. You've just been spending too much time down that dark crevice, thinking that you're the worlds worst writer and that no publisher will ever like your manuscript and now you're just worried about embarrassing yourself. You're going to make mistakes, but no one is going to die. It's not as though you are bandaging bloodied limbs in a war hospital with very little training and hardly any staff. That's when you learn about survival and that you mustn't give up hope—there's always hope.

You know, she told me, It's a bit like the two frogs that fell in a pail of milk. 'One said: "Ooh, I'm drowning, I'm drowning!" the other frog said, "I'm not going to drown." "How can you stop from drowning?" asked the other frog. "Why I'm going to hustle around, and hustle around like mad," said the second frog. Next morning, the first frog had given up and drowned, and the second frog, having hustled around all night, was sitting there in the pail, right on top of a pat of butter.'

Ah, thank you Agatha, that makes so much sense. You have given me strength as always; and I always wondered why frogs legs are sautéed in butter and worms are dunked in tequila!