It’s just that I’ve realised I’m going to die. Like, you know, one day. One day – and here’s the key, I think – relatively soon. In less time than I have lived already, almost certainly. Almost equally certainly, in about half the time I have already lived. With a non-negligible chance of it being much less and quite possibly very much less.
And now? Now I have to stop every 10 minutes to grapple with the fact that – yeah, I’m going to die. Like, die. Like, me. I will die and if an obituary gets written it will say “Lucy Mangan, a blurty-bling year old mother of one died [anywhere between peacefully at home and screaming in a library fire] and that’s it, really. She dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Some people are sad but they’ll get over it and she’ll still be dead. K, thx, bye.”
I should be consumed by existential dread. I should be grappling with the implications on a philosophical, intellectual level. Instead, I’m just furious. Absolutely furious. Both with the realisation itself (now? Now?! When the dishwasher’s just packed up and the sodding idiots next door have just punched a hole through our wall as they do their 18th kitchen renovation of the year?). And with – well, the fact that I am going to die. It’s an outrage. I mean – it is outrageous. Is it not?
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I've been penny-pinching for years - now I realise my time is priceless
Read MoreI don’t really know, yet, where to put myself and this new knowledge. I’m a bit… pacey, at the moment, you know? Bit fidgety. Bit getting up and down and walking around the place trying to get a mental handle on things. Maybe I’ll settle into catatonia soon, as existential dread replaces fury, I don’t know.
I think what will help right now is shouting through the hole in the wall and letting the neighbours know that another new kitchen will deter death no more than anything else we do. And that in fact, if it causes any more damage to my home, it may bring it down upon them rather quicker than they thought. And so the wheel turns.
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