There comes a point in a busy person’s life when something happens that makes you think, slow the fuck down.
No-one is going to give you a bloody medal for squeezing one more thing into your day.
One more load of washing.
One more e-mail answered.
One more coat of paint on the half-finished bedroom that, in a good light, could pass as ‘shabby chic’ but on the whole looks like a squat.
My wake up call was my daughter falling face first off a wall.
That sounds more dramatic that it was.
The wall was only two bricks high.
We were trying to get out of the house to go to the park.
We’d just discovered that the gross smell near our front door was a decomposing fox.
*gips just thinking about it*
And I was trying to ‘quickly’ answer an e-mail on my phone.
My daughter, bored by the hold up, was balancing on the wall.
And in the millisecond it took me to press ‘send’ she tripped over her foot, lost her balance, forgot to break her fall with her hands and cracked her head on the pathway.
She let out the mother of all screams and I was momentarily paralysed by fear.
But seconds later I had a soggy wet towel pressed to her head, and smothered the egg bump with arnica.
She is, luckily, blessed with my thick scull.
But this was meant to be our day together.
The oasis before I look down the barrel of a week so busy I want to punch myself in my own face.
So I made a pact with myself.
Try and concentrate on one thing at a time.
For at least the duration of a trip to the park.
Because otherwise you end up doing ten things badly and someone face-planting the pavement.