When we had redecorated the universe to a high standard, we sat back on our laurels. Nobody seemed to have noticed the interruption in service, phew. So, taking it up, I followed the thread along, avoiding the lumps at the back.
As I walked, I found myself, as per, worrying and anxious as to what I might find lurking in the shadows beside the path that the thread demanded.
Would the sky fall short or inflation go through the roof, and, if inflation broke the roof, how would I mend it? Should I put aside a tarpaulin just in case, should I get two in case one blew away?
Important things like that or similar.
Would the fridge demand a pay rise? Would the price of leggings effect the snow fall? Would the children ever grow up? How could I stop all the breaks that hadn’t happened yet and why should I cut the grass when it looked so nice?
I wouldn’t say that my mind was playing tricks, but it was certainly tricky trying to keep it caged. All my edges became frayed and unmanageable, hat hair standing on end and nerves put through the shredder, like redacted CIA secrets.
The thread ran me a merry dance through the mean streets, which were not kind. Lingering some by the shops until it ventured into jungle country.
I considered, as I walked, putting all my worries in my old kit bag which I had stashed at the back of the wardrobe after the fighting had stopped. Perhaps then they might remain contained?
Unfortunately, my old kit bag was not big enough, as my worries seemed to multiply like wet gremlins after midnight or golden cups in the deep vaults of the goblin bank. Gathering them up, I put them in the incinerator. Do you have an incinerator? No, I don’t have one either, not really. I had to stuff the outstanding anxieties under the bed, but they kept poking me in the back, up through the mattress, and waking me up at 3.45 in the am.
Then I would lie there, sort of pretending to be asleep, like I haven’t noticed that I’m awake. Every worry that I’ve ever had since I was 12 (I didn’t have any before that), making a kind of parade between my ears.
They say that you can put them all in a boat and then float them off down a convenient river, the Good Ship Trouble disappearing under the Bridge of Forget About It, but I’m not so sure. Every time I think they’ve gone for good they come around again, maybe it’s more like the Merry Go Round of Trouble rather than a River of Unrest.
Anyway, I decided to get them all out from under the bed and deal with them once and for all, so that I could follow the thread in good spirits and with a sharp sense of discovery.
I ranged my worries on the garden wall from the smallest on the left, (Will my favourite socks last another washing?) to the biggest to the right, (Will the sun explode this afternoon?). (How am I going to make ends meet?) and (How will I feed the children?) somewhere in the middle.
Taking a garden rake, I proceeded to bash each one until its shreds could fit into compostable bags, eventually gathering seventeen bags of shredded anxiety.
I considered putting them on the compost, but I had read troubling tales, that’s another story. I considered using them as insulation against the biting north wind, but I couldn’t discount psychic contamination, so I summoned the landfill executive.
When the garbage truck rolled up, the operator eyed my sacks with suspicion, then she rolled up her professional sleeves and confronted the problem.
What are you doing loose on the streets of the concrete jungle with seventeen bags of toxic anxiety? You do know that this stuff can self-combust if the temperature fluctuates. I’ll have to call in the specialists.
In the concrete jungle the strangler vines attempted to ensnare the high irises and swamped the street furniture. Threatening the tables and chairs with extinction. High above the hotel entrance canopies, the flocks of migrant dentists searched for a place to practise their strange drilling techniques.
Amongst the ground dwellers in the under growth Spikey Amandillas rummaged in the loose street paper, lost watches and empty process cans, searching for their favourite foods, juicy worries and piquant concerns.
The garbage truck operator spread the banquet of disquiet in front of them, and they straight way started to devour each worry, disquiet and consternation, until they were all gone.
I thanked the driver and bid her farewell. I continued on my way feeling light as a light thing, with wings.
The Guardians of the Cave 