Bricking it Babble.
I always worry about dying on the toilet.
Is that weird?
Basically, being trapped in a toilet is my worst nightmare, but dying while on the toilet seriously worries me and flashes through my head each and every time I drop my kecks, but then I figure, well, at least if I die on the toilet at least ill be dead, you know? So then I can poo in peace.
Does anybody else get worried about this? Surely you must.
I wish I could drink a shot of tequila, because as I sit here on this 12.35 Pendolino to London Euston I feel like I not only need some Dutch courage to enable me to get through tonight but also the general sense of panic is ensuring my bowels are doubling over on them selves constantly.
So yeah, bollocks.
I need the toilet.
The fields are sprawling as far as my eyes can see, and as Alanis Morrisette is singing in to my ears about being sweaty her whole life and missing the rapture in every day tasks, of feeling forever incomplete, the terror building in my nether regions starts to reach crescendo point.
I put my hand to my chest and try to steady my breathing by staring at the stout and portly black and white cows we are speeding past.
They seem unperturbed by the train flashing past them with my green and sweaty face pressed up against the glass gasping for breath and instead continue as always, monotonously gurning on their grassy picnic.
I wonder if it ever gets stuck in their teeth?
Or if they ever wish for ketchup or some sort of condiment?
I can’t hear it, because like I mentioned, Alanis Morrisette is busy coming in to my ears, but I am sure if I whipped out my head phones I would almost certainly be able to hear the heady approach of a thunder storm.
Or maybe that is just my…. You know what? Nevermind.
It is when I am perilously wobbling on the verge of a full blown panic attack that I spot him.
It would be hard not to.
There he is, stood right bang in the middle of absolutely no where, wearing a foot to toe luminous orange boiler suit, propping up a metal gate.
The train slows to a stop so I can watch him.
He is looking about as if asking for help.
But from my vantage point sat at the top of this hill, I can see there is absolutely no one.
He is alone, dressed like an idiot, propping up a gate, in the middle of a huge expanse of space, that doesn’t seem to serve a purpose.
‘Mate, what is the point?’ I want to shout out of the window.
I am genuinely interested as to where he gets his sense of purpose.
As the black dog has recently been creeping back in to my room at night and curling up under my pillow (and I am not talking about Doodle) I have found myself asking that question a lot.
What is the point?
I am on the train on the way to the mad blog awards and I am excited. Of course I am, simply being given the opportunity to attend again this year has been my ‘point’ all summer.
Does that sound selfish?
That I have a beautiful son who I adore and recently have a ring on my finger but really it is this, that at times has kept me going?
The thought of freedom, of inane chatter, of spending time with people where I can just be me.
I am excited. I Really I am.
I am also, however, absolutely trying not to crap my pants (because I am too scared of dying on the way to the mads, sat on the toilet.)
I pour my heart and soul in to my blog, and last night as I was dousing myself in orange cream, enjoying the smell of fake tan, it dawned on me, that I sometimes forget that people actually read it.
My honesty, as I sit on this train, safe behind a wall of mac glass, feels safe.
My feelings on the Internet, for anybody to read, behind a wall of mac glass, don’t feel that brave.
Oh my god.
Tonight? I wont be able to hide.
I have called myself a slag. I have written about my heart and childhood being raped. I have told people I didn’t bond with my son. I have told people I hated the Irish one. I have… oh my god.
There were no trams running when I left the house so I had to call a Taxi.
‘What do you write about?’ The driver asked me when we got on to it.
He leant his elbow on the steering wheel at the lights and turned to me with surprised blue eyes.
‘What the hell do you have to be depressed about? Sounds like you have a great life!’
And it is that little inconspicuous question that calms me a little.
I have nothing to be depressed about do i?
And yet I am.
Which is why I am so honest.
Which is why everything I do has a purpose, so even when I find myself stood in the middle of nowhere holding up a fence looking like a dick, thinking there is no point and I am worthless, it is that lack of understanding that reminds me.
What I have done in being so honest, and what I do has a purpose.
It helps me.
It has given me a purpose.
And the MAD awards have given me a purpose this summer.
So thank you Sally.
I described myself as a slag!
Doesn’t mean I’m not shitting myself though!!!