So, surprise, surprise, my old mucker FEAR has snuck back in to the crevice created by my tears and made a rather predictable appearance late last night.
Just as I was about to tidy up, turn off the TV and go to bed I realised that I had concertinaed up my body and was frantically biting down hard on my knuckle, every muscle of my body tense with dread and anticipation.
And, coward that I am, I quickly bottled on my resolution, and downed the tab of Sertraline I should have taken that day, waited for it to take effect, then got into bed, curling myself into a tight foetal position.
Then came the dream.
I’m in a hot country with my friend Jon and we happen upon some kind of attraction/activity, and when we get up closer I see that it’s some kind of zip wire contraption running between two little pod like rooms with a walkway that you have to walk over to get from one to the other, a bit like a motorway service station flyover. Below is a steep fall onto crags and rocks, but there is a sign saying that whoever crosses it wins $1M. I distinctly remember that part as I was trying to figure out what that is in sterling. There is a duffle bag filled with notes. No one touches it.
I turn to look at Jon, but he’s a way back staring at me blankly.
It it true? What are the legalities of it? Will they really pay out if someone takes up the challenge?
Then I notice that the wire sags flabbily in the middle and that there is no security harness, just two handles to hang onto as you cross, as you dangle over the rocks below.
Everyone just stares at it.
I’m thinking of how this prize will solve all of my problems. I’d be able to pay off my mortgage, move to the coast and start again.
I look around again for Jon, but he’s talking to the others, not paying me any attention.
Then I think ‘Fuck it’ and go to pull the handles to my end via a pulley and park my stuff next to the duffle bag. As I do this there is some kind of commotion in the opposite pod as a stocky dark haired man dressed in white arabic robes gets up and peers across at me through the glass of the pod.
Trip trap, trip trap…
I don’t like him.
He’s creeping me out.
I know I’m not going to do it.
Then I wake up as one of the cats starts chewing my hair, keening for his breakfast.
God I feel shit today. And piss weak to boot.
Why do bad days always follow good?
Who am I kidding? Every day is the same, it’s like frigging Groundhog Day with a sarf London twist, and I’m going to go seriously doolally if I don’t get out of here. Apart from the odd couple of days here and there, I haven’t this friggin’ cell for over a year now, and it’s really getting to me. My friend has a place by the coast, and even though it’s usually unoccupied, for whatever reason he’s really weird about any of us using it, and I’m too proud to hint or ask him about it anymore.
I need the sea air in my hair, the sun on my body, and a different set of walls to stare at, and my credit card is bouncing around in my bag excitedly.
‘You don’t have the money!’
‘What about your mortgage?’
‘Get a job first!’
‘Don’t do it Sista!’
But I’m in a dangerous mood, fed up of relying on the kindness of others and tired of being afraid.
What is it with me and tightropes?
Oh bollocks to it, what’s the worst that can happen? You’re a long time dead…