When is the exact moment you realise you’re in the middle of a nervous breakdown? Is it, for example, when you sling a couple of swimsuits across the centre of a Gap Store?
Looking back it was a mistake to go in there in the first place. Rushing, as usual, with zero minutes to spare and I thought I’d just do a flyby to try and resolve the no swimming costume issue.
I asked a shop assistant if he could help find one in my size to which he replied (without looking up) ‘if it’s not there in your size we haven’t got it.’
I said ‘thanks for the help,’ but it was only as I walked away – wrong sized swimsuits in hand – that something snapped, something rolling and volcanically fierce that made me hurl the swimsuits onto a pile of jumpers with a rage hitherto unseen in a Gap Store, I’d imagine.
‘Is everything ok?’ asked a trussed up floor manager I’d failed to notice earlier. Mistake to ask. No, not ok, I said and like some kind of Hyacinth Bucket matriarch I let her know in finite detail why not.
It was only afterwards as I shakily ordered a latte in Starbucks that I wondered if I should have added ‘and by the way I’m having a nervous breakdown.’
The person I feel most sorry for is my homeopath whom, as I write, is probably sweetly discussing angina problems with an OAP, not realising that at 9am tomorrow morning he’ll be getting it with both barrels from me.
I see him every few weeks under the guise of a dietary ailment but I think we both know there’s much more to it than that.
It usually goes like this. He asks me how I am and I tell him, holding nothing back, with a footnote ten minutes later about the yeast allergy – ‘oh and by the way your pills aren’t working.’
Then after 30 minutes I sail off down his bucolic mile long drive whistling and noticing that the birds are singing and the roses are out while he sits at his desk, head in hands.
Anyway here’s hoping he can work his magic tomorrow and in the meantime, it’s a shame about the polka dot swimsuit. I wonder if they sell it online?