I can’t sleep.
I’m tired, but agitated.
And the fucking moon is staring at me.
I’m going to sit at the table where I can’t see it in this dark, unlit room. And more to the point, it can’t see me.
I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.
Did something awful happen?
In actual fact, the mood en route to my engagement was very convivial. People seemed to be very jolly, a lot of them tipsy or downright drunk, and there was a general party atmosphere. People were laughing and smiling on the tube.
If I didn’t know it was March, I mused to myself at the time, I would swear it was Christmas.
And then I remembered.
Easter long weekend.
It’s not like I’d forgotten. I’ve been giving up stuff for Lent, I was aware that people have plans, I just didn’t make plans for myself.
Even this morning, when my friend M expressed concerned that I’d be alone for the bank holiday, I brushed it off, genuinely unconcerned.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said airily ‘when you’re not working, every day is just another day Weekends are irrelevant.’
You see, the worst part of celebratory times was having to listen to other peoples plans in the office and either have to endure their pitying looks or, to your eternal shame, make something up to keep them from feeling sorry for you. So, I reasoned to myself earlier this week, this weekend should be a breeze.
Aunty C was a bit perturbed too. ‘Do something nice for yourself,’ she pleaded ‘honour yourself and the day.’
Doing what? My only break opportunity was spending it with family and they were all off to the frozen North, and what with the snow and traffic problems, I didn’t bother to invite myself along.
Nor did they invite me.
Not because they don’t love me. Because they know me too well.
They know that I’ll usually find a way of getting out of going to see them. That I’ll be late and probably mess up their arrangements. That I’ll want my own room, need some privacy, and be unwilling to sleep on the floor or on a camp bed. That I’m picky about where and what I eat and will nurse a glass of water whilst they eat junk food. That I’d rather eat fish and chips in a cafe than outside from the paper. And that I’ll find spending three nights and four days in a two up two down with six adults, two teenagers and one kid overwhelming to the point of being absolutely unbearable.
So I get it. I’m not the perfect house guest.
I just wanted to be invited.
So I could say no?!!!
God, help me understand, what the fuck is wrong with me?
So whilst I don’t have to explain away my solo weekend to anyone, it still smarts to be alone regardless.
How could I have convinced myself that it wouldn’t?
People are delighted that they have the next four days off because they have responsibilities, work hard and have a life, so enjoy them because they have something to compare this freedom with.
They also have things to do, people to see, promises to keep, holidays to take, traffic to sit in, dinners to cook, chocolate to give, kids to kiss, partners to fuck, lives to live in the next four days.
Light and shade. Good and bad. Yin and Yang.
I’m just sort of….the same. All the time. No stress, no delight. Just bleugh.
It’s down to me to change things.
IT’S DOWN TO ME.
It’s suddenly gotten lighter in here. I turn my head and there it is, beaming cheesily, stupidly, relentlessly through the glass.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ I snarl at it.
I neither need nor want any witnesses to my pain, not even planetary ones.
The moon glows back apologetically but shows no sign of desisting.
It’s not yet Easter Sunday, but quite frankly, something’s got to give on the sacrifice front. But not the alcohol.
The only thing that can help on a night like this is drawn curtains, hot milk and back to back ‘Six Feet Under’ until I nod off from complete exhaustion as I fear that my Long Good Friday is only just beginning.
Funny how death can comfort and lull a girl to sleep.
And funnier still that no matter how alone I am, there always seems to be a witness. And it may not be the moon.
Now that is spooky.