Home Is Where The Heart Is

Have you ever been on holiday somewhere, and felt yourself instantly and explicably at home? Like there is something about the place that acknowledges and reflects back to you the beauty that you carry within your soul. And so, because it reflects your heart somehow, you feel comfortable there. Similarly, you can walk into a friend’s house and know that you are at home again – acceptable and enough, just the way you are. Nothing to prove. Nothing to be.

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But “at home” means different things to different people. And different things to the same person at different times of life. Some people might take it as a compliment being able to make their own tea at your house (after all, they get to have it just the way they like it), whereas others may appreciate you taking the effort to pamper them by making them a cuppa. There’s no right or wrong, there’s just hearts expressing what their ideas of home are.

I’ve just come back from my first stall at a Christmas Fair. We crocheted and knitted hats and scarves from lovely chunky good quality wool. My mum sewed bags and Christmas stockings. Almost nothing sold, despite my best marketing efforts. Because the market wasn’t in the right place for what we had to offer. We couldn’t lower our prices any more than we already had. People really liked what we had to offer them, but they couldn’t afford the price we asked them to pay. Our wares reflected our hearts, and the Fair was a place that just wasn’t home.

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It was really hard, packing up the stuff that we had unpacked with so much hope hours before. And so it can be in life, when you realise that you have to walk away from a place that is not a home for your heart. But know this. There is a home for you. There is a place where people will value what your heart brings, and be able to pay the price that you ask them to pay. You are worthwhile, you are valuable.

Your heart deserves a home.

(Incidentally, if you want to buy some lovely homemade hats, scarves or Christmas decorations, get in touch on roxicalthinking@gmail.com or larfsandcrafts@gmail.com – U.K. only)

The Beauty In Long Shadows

Earlier in the week, it was World Prematurity Awareness Day. I didn’t write anything about it, mainly because I didn’t feel qualified. I don’t know anybody who is either grieving the loss of, or facing the daily challenge of raising, an infant or child born prematurely. I do know that such events cast long shadows over the lives that they touch.

You know the shadows that I’m talking about. When you take an afternoon walk, and your shadow looms like a giant before you. The tree overhead takes almost ghostly dimensions as the wind whistles through the branches and their shadows dance. And you know the sun is almost gone. That winter, and darkness is coming, and the cold will bite at your ears. The long shadows make small things big, and big things small. Because it is easy to look only at the shadows.

But there are only shadows because there is light. And even in the depth of winter, there is always hope. A different kind of hope. The hope that remembers the other kind of long shadows, the long shadows of spring, as the sun begins to rise again.

Yesterday, the long shadows were playing tricks on me. They reminded me of all the troubles yet to come. But today, I can celebrate the coming season. I can see the beauty in the long shadows, because they show me I am still moving. Things are still changing, life is still going on. And sometimes it’s hard, and sometimes it is a winter of the soul. But that’s alright. Because winter is a time for rest. It’s a time for warm soups and fireside chats, for reflection, and planning, and realising how strong you really are. So right now, I face some autumn storms, but soon, I will be hiding in my cabin, with my leek and potato soup.

And then one day, I will look out the window, and see long shadows again. And green buds on the trees. And I will know that a new season is beginning again.

That’s the trick with seasons. You need to know which one you’re in, and value it for what it is. And winter is so under-rated.

Bad Days Not Permitted.

Have you ever had that feeling that you’re just not allowed to have a bad day? I mean, I’m a mum, and I know that mum never really goes off duty, but today, I wish I was allowed a bad day. That I could just shout and cry and sit in a corner and say rude things to anybody who came near. Except for those delivering foamy hot chocolate. I want to growl at the cat and swear at the housework, and wake up tomorrow with everything as though today had been a good day.

The trying grinds me down. The knowing that there will always be some element of this to my life can make all the joy leak out my bucket. The very things that inspire me are often the things that drain me completely. The simple repetition of housework can be soothing and allow my mind to work out solutions o problems, or ensnare my cogs in a maddening jumbled mess. It takes a bit of conscious effort to enjoy my housework, you see. And when you don’t have much energy left? Well, it all becomes a self defeating circle really.

Which makes me want a bad day without consequences. Because I know I can’t really have a bad day. Little Person needs me to help her with her homework. Even the cats follow me around, jumping on my lap in attention-seeking neediness. I have only just caught up with the laundry pile, if you define “caught up” very loosely. But there are people in the world without laundry, because the only clothes they have are the ones that they are wearing. And there are people who would love to have the problem of a child’s homework, as each month goes by and reminds them that they have no children. I know that, and I do not make light of that at all.

But that kind of logic doesn’t always wash with me, because there’s a fallacy in there somewhere. Just because there are worse problems than mine, doesn’t mean that my problem doesn’t exist. Just because there are children starving in Africa, doesn’t mean we should ignore the hungry in our own country. And just because I have all the material things I need, doesn’t mean that I have no problems at all.

The Dude pronounced to me yesterday that I have a voice. And he’s right, I do. I have a voice to say that today I am having a bad day. Today all the caring, and fixing, and loving, and cleaning and washing has caught up with me. So I will be sitting over there in the corner, imagining that there are no bad consequences to this day.

Bring me hot chocolate.

When Are Special Needs Special Enough?

Little Person dances on the edge of that whole special needs thing. Her tantrums are like a brilliant fireworks display – loud and blazing out of nowhere, and disappeared in a flash. Absolutely 100% heartfelt, and when she’s upset like that, touching her only makes the whole thing worse. So I stand and watch for the signs that are her stiffened body uncurling itself. They don’t happen too often – especially now that I know many of the triggers, but when they do, it’s exhausting.

I read other people’s accounts of their children’s special needs, and I remember other children I have worked with in the past. Children with ADHD, or from abusive backgrounds, or emotionally traumatised. And I think, well, she’s not as bad as all that. She looks normal. I can take her to the shop and most of the time, we manage alright. Better than alright. She knows the rules for going shopping, and is extraordinarily good at following them. Who complains that their child is a bit weird because they do what they are told?

But here’s the thing. I know there is something different in Little Person’s obedience. I know that I run the instructions that I give her through a “Little Person Filter” in my head. No exaggeration, no metaphor, not too much information. Don’t tell her the why until she’s doing it. Don’t tell her that this is what we’re definitely going to do, unless you know that is what we are definitely going to do. If you forget something, add it at the end, because you can’t add it in the middle. So we only do alright because I follow her rules, really.

But it is exhausting, this making sure that we understand each other. This trying to work out what she wants. I should be able to ask and understand the answer. I’m her mother. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I look at her and say “I don’t understand” and she shrugs her shoulders and walks away. Sometimes I say “I don’t understand” and she melts under the table, shouting and I stand, listening. Until there is a word that I can understand, and I guess. And she climbs out from her frustration, and life continues as normal.

So Little Person dances on the edge of special needs, and I dance with her. Sometimes there is a joy in the difference. I love that she doesn’t subscribe to the stereotypes, that she loves to be with me, the way she sings her way through life, her absolute determination to do the thing she sets her mind to. Sometimes it is heartache. Sometimes I watch her and think, she is always going to be special to me. Just special, not special needs. But then I think, if I can get her some help, some extra support, so she can learn to understand that life has exceptions to the rules, and all the other things she should know but doesn’t, she will fit in and achieve so much more.

And then I remember, I don’t fit in either.

The Power Of Your Story: Living Beyond The Shame

I deliberately steer clear of writing about what I hear in church on a Sunday. I figure if you want a sermon, you can follow somebody else’s blog. But one Sunday night, an 18 year old woman told her story with a quiet authority that demonstrated an unequivocal truth. If you can tell your story in a way that inspires others, you own your story instead of your story owning you.

This young woman spoke of a life filled with tragedy. She cried as she talked of growing up in institutions, of pretending to be strong and then waking up at night to cry, of wanting nothing more than a place to belong. She spoke of praying to a God that she didn’t even know, asking him for somewhere to belong, somewhere to be loved. And then she told of moving to a house where she was accepted, where she was loved, where people believed in her. So when she said “My life has a purpose. Even me, even my life,” people listened. She spoke from a place of tragedy and brokenness, of a life of hope, and purpose and love. And people listened, and believed in a hope for their lives too. Because her authority came from her story.

I wrote about post-natal depression (PND) earlier this week. That was my own attempt to tell my story in a way that would benefit others. It’s an illness covered in shame. You have PND, you recover, and you try to pretend it never happened. It’s not a topic for public conversation. The feedback I received reinforced for me the importance of telling that part of my story. Because if I can lift my head and tell you I survived PND, that I am a survivor not a victim, then maybe you can start to tell that part of your story in those terms too.

Too often we are shamed by things that we have no control over. Too often we shame others for things that they have no control over. While society may choose to condemn or shame us for being different, or sad, or inappropriate, or loud, or quiet, or creative, or conservative, or happy*, or any other reason, we always have a choice in how we respond to that treatment. We can’t always fight back, but we can choose not to wear that shame. We can choose to stand, and keep standing, until there are so many of us standing, that the shame is cowering in a corner.

Would you choose to stand with the ones that society would shame?

*I took that list from things that people have told me off for. Yes, I got into trouble for being too happy.

At 11:00, I Shall Remember My Grandfather. And My Uncle. And All Those Yet To Come.

My grandfather did not die in World War 2. He served as a mechanic in the Air Force, in North Africa and surrounds. That is all I know. And in his later years, I would hear him wheezing, although I never knew him to smoke. He had emphysema, in part from the work he did on the aeroplanes. It wasn’t what killed him, but it was a price that he paid. Not every wound ends in a gravestone. And living on can sometimes be the greater sacrifice.

“There are no unwounded soldiers in war” – someone on Twitter. I read that this week, and it resonated. I think of my uncle, still very much alive. A kind and generous man, conscripted on the edge of adulthood to serve in the war that wasn’t. We lived in South Africa, and I remember him coming through the door in his uniform, with that dark look in his eyes. He was my uncle, but he saw things that no young man deserves to see. And he didn’t have a choice. I suspect it still haunts him. I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t know how.

I will remember all those who have yet to step up to the battlefield, yet to make their sacrifice. Those who stand on the edge of the recruiting office and think, “Am I brave enough? Am I strong enough? Will I be able to live with myself if I do this? Will I be able to live with myself if I do not?” I know that war is inevitable – men’s hearts are too evil for it to be otherwise. I know that suffering and sacrifice follows. I know that we need men and women to stand at that frontline and defend us from tyranny. But I am sad, and I am sorry that it must be so.

So I will remember you.

Thank you.

7 Things I wish People Knew about Post-Natal Depression (PND)

I was trying to be helpful by giving the cashier the exact change for my lunch, but the thinking wasn’t going right. I had to think about the coins like I used to when I first moved to this country. And my occasional tremor was back. So maybe it wasn’t helpful.

“Come on Rox! I have a lecture to get to!” the woman behind me in the queue bumped against me as she put her purchases down. My coins dropped on the counter. The cashier took the correct ones leaving me to hamfist the coppers into my purse and march slowly, resolutely, through my tears to find a table. I hardly ate any of that meal. But the tears didn’t stop. Not at the table, not on my walk to the train station, not on the journey home. Not opening the door to my empty house and tripping over baby things. I considered climbing on a train down to London, to anywhere really, and texting The Dude to tell him he would need to pick up The Baby. That he was better off without me. That I couldn’t do it anymore. The only reason that didn’t happen is that I didn’t have the money for the ticket.

Little Person was 4 months old. I was in my second year at university, and I had a serious problem. I was tumbling down the cliff-face of Post-Natal Depression (PND), and I didn’t have a safety net.


I’m writing this from the other side, reaching back into history to remember things I would rather forget. Telling my story, so that the story that you tell can be different. Rather than just wishing that things had been different, I want to make them different for those who follow on from me. I am not saying that PND is always like this, but I am saying that it might be like this. But these are the things that I wish I, and the people around me, had known about PND.

  1. It is not just the “baby blues”.

Sure, you already knew that. PND is a serious condition that negatively impacts on the mental health of an individual. It’s not feeling overwhelmed for two weeks after your baby has been born. But even if it were, would you want to add to the strain? If it were you totally overwhelmed by your responsibilities, would you want people coming round unannounced, cooing at this bundle of tears and demanding coffee and biscuits, or would you want people to send food and hand cream, and wash your dishes?

  1. It is not just about the hormones.

Alright, it is about the hormones (maybe – I’m not up to date on my research). But technically, so is diabetes. Nobody runs around telling people with diabetes that it’s alright, they’ll come right, it’s just hormones. Even if it is about hormones, it’s still alright to receive treatment. It’s still alright to seek help. If it was your thyroid gland, and you were tired all the time, you would seek help.

The only reason I was able to go to the GP to get help was because The Dude recognised how bad the situation had become. He made the appointment. He took time off work to take me to the appointment. He explained to the doctor what was going on. He never, ever said to me “it’s just hormones.”

  1. Just because you pass the questionnaire, doesn’t mean everything’s okay.

When the health visitor comes round, they give you one of those questionnaires to ask whether you’re happy and smiley as usual. They total up your scores and if you get 13 or more they get concerned. I scored 12. So they didn’t worry about me. They said I was fine, everything was okay. I believed them. I had nothing to compare it to. I thought all new mothers felt this way – slightly hollowed out and crushed under the responsibility of it all. The Dude sat across the room, knowing that something was desperately wrong, not knowing what to do about it. (He only told me that years later, and strangely, I love him all the more for knowing that he saw it.)

The questionnaire is just a guideline. And self-report is notoriously bad as an evaluative tool. It’s alright to speak up on behalf of those you love. Because sometimes, the illness overwhelms, and we can’t see how far away from normal we really are.

  1. It affects the whole family – but not in the way you think.

I didn’t want to admit to myself, or anybody else, that there was a problem. The Dude knew, of course. He would come in the door and take Little Person, and I would disappear into the bedroom just to escape it all. I was drowning. And The Dude was doing his best to save me, but there was a hole in the lifeboat. I would not be here today if it were not for The Dude. But it took a mental toll. He spent the first three years of Little Person’s life making sure she felt loved, and cared for, because I could not do it. I felt like a failure as a mother, and as a wife. But I think that he felt like a failure too, because he could not help me. He could not get me out of that mess. Even though he was not a failure, because he managed to keep me going. And he cared for The Little Person. And he had nobody to help him.

People are quick to acknowledge that a woman may struggle with PND, quick to acknowledge that this would have a negative impact on the baby (although this is not strictly true). But people fail to recognise the gut-wrenching heartache that is watching somebody endure such hardship, finding only tears when they should be finding joy. In reaching out to the mother, let us not forget to reach out to the rest of the family, because these things are hard for them too.

  1. Small moments of kindness make a big difference. Especially repeated.

I went away with The Dude, and when I came home, my friend had potted some plants in our backyard. It meant that when I stood washing dishes or baby bottles, I could look out at the plants and smile. Because somebody had thought of me, and somebody was thinking of me. But I suspect that part of the reason that it had such an impact was because I could look at it every day. It is so easy to forget the positives when you are in a negative place. When you are expending all your energy finding a way to get through to the end of the day, it can be difficult to make a change, to think about good things, to plan for a better day. That means that people need to come in and keep doing the things that you need to make you feel better. Not once, not twice, but over and over again. And here’s the really tricky bit, at least in my case. Most of the time I couldn’t tell you what would help. Which is helpful. Not.

  1. The journey back can be long. Very, very long.

At the beginning of this piece, I mentioned falling down a cliff-face, and that’s what it felt like. Have you ever tried to climb out of a canyon? (Okay, no. I haven’t actually climbed out of a canyon. But I’ve walked up the hill at Giant’s Causeway, which felt like trying to climb out of a canyon.) But accepting that I was on a journey was a significant contributor to my recovery. I would laugh, and the sound seemed harsh and unnatural in my ears. And then I would be upset because I laughed so rarely that I had forgotten what my laugh sounded like. I used the progress that I made to berate myself for not making better progress. I was, as The Dude put it “exceptionally hard” on myself. His advice? “Do the best you can with what you have.” And yes, you could hear the italics in his voice. Sometimes you just don’t have much. When that’s the case, your best is not going to be anything near what you can do with tip-top resources. Sometimes your best is just saying “I can’t do this,” knowing that a day will come when you don’t have to say that anymore.

When I say it took me years to recover, I don’t mean to discourage. In my case, I struggled for at least a year trying to make the thing manageable (partly because I was unable to medicate due to conflicting medications), and then I reached a murky plateau. Things became doable, if not necessarily pleasurable. It was only after a year or so of murkiness that I was able to find the strength to climb back up to levels of mental health that I had known before.

But here’s a positive. Since then, I have teetered on the brink of depression and not succumbed, because I recognised what was happening. Twice. (But let us not become overconfident. Like an addict, I must always be alert to the dangers.)

  1. PND is not your identity. Even when it feel like it is.

I could tell you, don’t worry, you will smile again, but I won’t. Not because it isn’t true (it is), but because I know that those words won’t help you. Instead I say you are more than this illness.

You are still beautiful.

You still matter.

You are still a person.

You are still enough.

Though you may feel weak, and stupid, and incapable, you are none of these things. Every day that you stand and try again, every time you face this demon that haunts your soul, you are stronger than you realise, and braver than you know. You are the bravest of the brave.


I have never told this story before. I normally just say that I had PND, and people nod sagely, and think they understand. But every person’s experience of PND is different, every story is different. And we never truly forget. I think we carry the scars of these experiences on our hearts forever.

If you want to share your story, feel free to comment below or drop me a note at roxicalthinking@gmail.com.

If this story has stirred up memories, or helped you recognise that you need help, please contact Mind (www.mind.org.uk) or The Samaritans (www.samaritans.org) to get the help that you need.


The Story Of A Recipe

I thought that I made my mother’s roast chicken. I was sure of it. I remember my horror the first time I watched her stick a lemon up the backside of the bird. (These days she spatchcocks her chickens to cook them, but I like my chicken to look like chicken.) I made her roast chicken for one of the families I worked for down in London – complete with roast potatoes. I made it for my in-laws the first time I met them (they were my in-laws-to-be then). I made it for countless visitors and Sundays between that day and this. And I made it one time when my mum was up.

Let’s get this straight. This is not a particularly fancy recipe. This is cutting an onion and a lemon in half, and sticking half the onion, then half the lemon, then half the onion, in the cavity. Sometimes I may even stick a sage leaf or five under the skin. Occasionally there is bacon or pancetta on top (if I’m feeling particularly generous). I also have a recipe for actual stuffing for a chicken – several in fact. (My favourite is the one with pears poached in white wine. Keep the window open if you plan on driving.) But I like this recipe because it is almost as tasty as my super-fancy roast chicken, but so much less bother to make. And it’s my mum’s recipe. Well, it’s her style of cooking. So when I made it for her, I was hoping that she would say that it tasted just like her roast chicken. She didn’t.

“This chicken is soo-oo-o nice.”

“Thanks. It’s your recipe. The one where you stick the lemon and onion up its backside.”

“That’s not my recipe.”

That’s when my mum reminded me about her spatchcocking technique. Cooks the chicken faster. She says she has absolutely no recollection of ever using onions and lemons cut in half as a proxy for stuffing. I believe her. I never was particularly interested in cooking when I was growing up, so it is entirely possible that I got the wrong end of the stick.

So what’s the lesson in all of this? It doesn’t matter that it isn’t my mum’s actual roast chicken recipe, because it feels like her roast chicken recipe. Every time I make it, I smile to think of all the roast chickens she made when I was younger, and all the times before that I have made roast chicken. And so it is in life. It isn’t always about the precise details, but about the possibilities. My mum’s roast chicken is still my mum’s roast chicken, even though it isn’t. Because that is my decision.

That is the story of a roast chicken recipe.

(And yes. I know. It’s a lot of waffle, and all I have managed to do is make you hungry. Unless you are vegetarian.)

Speaking Out

When I was 10, I wanted to be baptised in the Baptist church that I attended. The pastor declined. So I arranged a meeting with him, and asked how it could be that I was morally accountable for my actions, and yet not capable of understanding the implications of baptism? I was baptised in a swimming pool in the middle of winter. That decision continues to benefit me today.

When I was in my early twenties, I was part of a group that enjoyed witty banter. They enjoyed making fun of certain aspects of my personality and skill set (I forget the details, I only remember that it hurt). I was never quick enough to put them in their place the way they put me in mine. Until one day.

“That’s not funny.”

“Ah, come on, it’s only a bit of a joke.”

“Then how come I’m not laughing?”

I still use that lesson today, gauging my words and the words of others by the impact they have. Never assuming that just because I find it funny, it is actually funny. (This is a necessary filter – I have an extraordinarily dark sense of humour. I blame South Africa.)

When I was in my mid-to-late twenties, I was rebuilding my life after epilepsy medication and its side effects had cost me two years. I was being intentional about it – putting myself in places that I believed would be safe, and where I would be able to build good, healthy relationships. I attended a group meeting of young people once a week. They took to mocking me about my epilepsy, and the occasional memory lapses I was still suffering. The leaders watched it happen, and said nothing. I went back, week after week, every time hoping it would be different. It never was. Eventually, I spoke up.

“Would you say these things about me if I was in a wheelchair?”

Embarrassed silence from all the teasers.

“We were wondering when you would say something,” observed the leaders.

“I could say the same thing about you. That’s your job,” I replied.

Here’s the thing. I say what needs to be said because it needs to be said. In any of the above situations, I could have just walked away quietly into the night, choosing not to hold a grudge, taking my own unique brand of humanity somewhere else, somewhere where it would be appreciated. But that’s not who I am. I don’t mean to be confrontational. I don’t mean to be difficult. I just look at situations and think, “We can do better than this.” And say so. Because what does anybody gain by my walking away quietly into the night?

My challenge to the pastor enabled him to view young people in a different light. It meant that countless other young people were able to come forward and be baptised, a decision that I believe would have a lasting impact on their lives. My other challenges that I describe above gave people the opportunity to re-evaluate their standards of acceptable behaviour. In one case, we were able to continue the relationship, but not always.

Of course, people can (and do) get upset when I speak out. But some people are relieved. Sometimes I am speaking out to say “you deserve better than this, you are worth more than this.” Sometimes, I speak out to say, “I believe in you. I know you can do it.” And then people walk out into the world a little stronger, a little surer, and go and make the world a better place.

I speak out about purpose, because we live in a world determined to kill our dreams. It can be dangerous to think that you might be able to do something, have an impact, make a difference. I know when I speak about purpose I am shouting against the wind, but somebody has to.

I speak out about acceptance, because I know its power. I know what it is be truly accepted. I know what it is to be truly tolerated. I know the difference it makes when I can be truly accepting. I’m a socially inept, over-analytical writer who occasionally gets over-excited. I live on the fringes of whatever group I am with, and yet people find it easy to talk to me. People tell me things, ask me things. Because they know that they are accepted, because they know that I will tell them not what they want to hear, but what they need to hear.

I say what needs to be said because it needs to be said. That does make me thick-skinned (I’m not). When I write, or speak, I don’t just address the here and now. I am trying to build for the future. I take the long term perspective. I see the difference that a few words can make. If you think back on your own life, it is often the few words that change the direction your life takes. The “I love you” or the “you can’t do that”. I see what the dripping tap of ten years of “I’m right, therefore you’re wrong” can do. I am a dreamer and I paint a very vivid picture of how the world can be, and hope that will be enough to motivate you to do something. Of course I would be willing to walk every step of that journey with you, but you should be warned.

You’re not going to like everything that I say.

Tired Friday Writing. Also, Cats

Remember Little Cat? She disappeared for a few days, and then came back, smelling slightly of dustbins and a bit thinner. We have kept Bonus Cat at bay by shutting the cat flap at night, but we leave it open during the day. Little Cat is much happier without Bonus Cat bothering her, but she seems to be an inside cat these days. This morning, I opened the back door and she stood in the doorway, hackles raised. She didn’t even get a nose out the door.

In other news, Today has been a grumpy, tired kind of day. The Dude has been on an early shift, which means I have been waking up way too early. And after a lovely week away of no cooking and minimal housework, being back to the everyday is hard. It can feel like drudgery.

But hey, there’s things to be grateful for. Today at the shop I was adding things to my shop for the food bank, and for my Moldova Christmas box. There are people with so much less than we have. Not only do I have food, I have the skills to prepare my food from scratch. I have kitchen equipment, and recipe books. And on top of that, I can read.

But sometimes, all the gratitude in the world ain’t gonna get me off the sofa. Sometimes, I’m just tired. Sometimes the weeks and months of challenges can overwhelm me. It is not that I’m defeated. Nor have I lost my faith, or desire, or passion. It’s just that the tiredness can sometimes get bigger than all that.

So. The trick is not let the tiredness beat me. I should rest up for a bit, and then tomorrow, I try again. I will not be like Little Cat, and hiding from the world just because of one bad day. (In Little Cat’s defence, hers was a very traumatic bad day.)

I can be tired. But some rest and I will be all better again.