Treasure: Gems? Gold? Wealth? Winning the Lottery?
Sorry. I have no treasure to bestow, no maps to Caribbean islands (with their rumours of buried chests and piratical pieces of eight) secreted about my person…
The treasure chest of my soul is depleted.
I have picked up the local lurgy, a flu-like affliction which, in my case, has caused a fever, constant aching, some loss of respiratory efficiency and a tendency to burst into tears at the slightest sound of Baroque music. This is not helped by the ongoing vicissitudes of the move (an event which, like Estragon and Vladimir, seems to await Godot’s arrival indefinitely) and, today, a damp and grey and depressing world out there.
I am fed up. Tired of living in a state of uncertainty; tired of hope constantly crushed; tired of existing in the cramped insecurity of possessions taken down from shelves and ready to go; tired of garments hanging on the backs of doors; tired of trying to keep a smile, a laugh and hope for others when, at times, I feel so hope-and-happiness diminished myself; tired of the frequent crises, the threats to pull out, the legal minutiae which, like Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, seem to have a malevolent life, and a glacial movement, of their own; tired of being scared and feeling powerless.
So this morning, rain piddling down, I drove to Clevedon, on a legal errand, and was completely undone by the first movement of Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ played on the harp – wept like a babe for much of the journey, my back and ribs spasming, it seemed, in time with the swishing regularity of the windscreen wipers. Feeling hot and light-headed doesn’t help.
I feel as if I am running just as fast and hard as I can towards the finishing line – but some unseen marshall keeps wrenching it back a few feet every time I get close. We are now into the sixth month of this ‘race’ – and I am exhausted. I could not even begin to tell you how many times I have provisionally booked a removal firm only to have to cancel that booking a week later: Put it this way, however, the calendar, since mid-October is littered with ‘Move?’ notations scored through with disappointed, angry and panicky lines.
This virus has come at a bad time – though I am hoping it won’t develop into full-blown flu. It shouldn’t: Because I am asthmatic, I get the flu jab each year. But I am feeling manky, under-the-weather, shaky, cotton-woolly around the ears and, not to put too fine a point upon it, bloody miserable.
As intimated at thee start of this post, I’m afraid I have no channelled images, or inspiring words, on the subject of treasure today. The only treasure you’ll get from me is the dubious box of buried goods which, opened, releases my honest, heart-felt feelings.