The morning begins. Eventually the morning will stop and the afternoon will elbow her way onto the stage. In between them, like a child with elbows pushed right out, is lunchtime, or noon, or dinner time. This child has many names but no specific time slot. I can eat lunch at 11.45 if I am hungry and the morning has barged under my eyelids ‘twirly’. Strictly speaking, 11.45 is still morning, but teetering on a cusp. All you have to do is walk twice around the house for it to become afternoon. When a builder says he will come after lunch on Wednesday, a person could still be waiting for him at 5pm which is obviously ‘after lunch’ although I do wonder at his domestic arrangements. You could lose days this way. If lunch is that far beyond the child with elbows pushed out then I won’t be inviting him for supper. I’d never get to bed at all.
It thinks me of my old friend Perception. How I see something, how you see something, how some people never see something their whole lives through. It makes for a rocky terrain. Then there’s the way that disaster, bereavement and loss can flip my own perception on his back leaving me looking down at him and seriously considering leaving him there. All those learned rules from the ancients rule book, things I was taught to think, ways of doing things or the timing for lunch. Stay down there a while you old master. I’m off to walk round the house twice for a little think.
In a life that runs on efficient timings, behaviour patterns, polite responses and high rise buns for the village fete every summer, a girl can be blind to her own real feelings. They have probably been suppressed for decades whilst the parents, society, school and church attended most diligently to the outside of her. She might have felt rage. Well, that’s not ladylike. She might have wanted to tell the village fete organisers to go boil their heads. She hates cake anyway, baking, more so. She might have had a controversial opinion about something now and again. We don’t do ‘controversial’ dear. In fact, if you check, it isn’t even a word in our Dictionary of Politeness. She might even have said God is the biggest twit of all, but she probably won’t say it out loud, never mind twice in one lifetime.
However, something snarly and sharp-toothed can rise in her when Perception lands on his butt, when her life is stolen from her, the one she imagined would always be as it always has been. She turns feral. Of course, she has no idea what to do with this feral thing because she has dressed pink and polite and kind and obliging for so many years. She hopes she will get over it, like a fever. She just needs to rest a bit and it will all come back to her, that sweet gloop of a sugary woman who offends nobody and always says yes to everything. And, yet, this toothy pixie will not be quiet. It will nip and pinch at her, discomfort her when what she craves is comfort once more. Go Away Pinch Pixie. And, yet, somewhere inside this woman an ember glows. The glow, like a sunshine morning, rises into flame and she is warmed from within. Nobody bothered much with her ‘within’ till now, not even she. But this heady warmth, this rise of Pinch Pixie is intoxicating. Say NO! the Pixie hisses into her inner inner ear when someone asks her if she can do something she doesn’t want to do. What? I’ve never not done what I didn’t want to do.
My point, precisely, smiles the Pinch Pixie. Welcome to You.