Nothing beats asking a children’s pirate/magician if he can do a “zombie/pirate/magician” for putting the spring back in your step. And here I was thinking I needed happy pills. Or more exercise. Or less alcohol. Or a good shake. Something to stop me being so down on everything. It seems I just needed to do some zombie cajoling for Sprog 1’s birthday party: “Shouldn’t be too tricky, some green face paint, a couple of fake, open wounds …” I mean, how can you feel blah suggesting that? It adds an instant 10 centimetres to your day. But its not a long-term solution to my problem. And I need to find one, because this low-mood thing is becoming a big snore. I got my first wake-up call earlier this week while having lunch with a friend. She said: “I read a few of your blogs while you were away and just thought, ‘Come on, the holiday can’t be that bad’.” Mind you, she reckons she’s never suffered from family fatigue syndrome, so maybe she’s attained a level of contentment higher than I can ever hope to reach. Perhaps I should start lying about the holiday. Just smile and say, “yes, it was wonderful” when people ask. Instead of sounding like the biggest whinger on the planet, complaining about having to spend a few weeks in the south of France and Spain. Boo-hoo, poor me. But it’s not just the holiday. I’m down on my weight. I’m down on my future career prospects. I’m down on my site traffic. I’m down on man-flu-riddled Husband. It’s turning me into a big, fat bore to be around. I’m also needing to tipple mid-week. By 5pm, I’m hanging for a glass of wine, as armour for the kiddie march to dinner, bath and bed. By the second glass, I’m all buzzed and cheery. It’s irresistible. Last night, I foolishly poured a third. Big mistake. Why? Because alcohol – surprise, surprise – is a depressant. That lovely buzz doesn’t last, it’s invariably replaced (at least for me) with mopey fuzz. So I woke at 5.30am with the weight of the world on my shoulders. It’s not right to be bleak before you even get out of bed. Fortunately I made it out of the house and went for a walk, which got the endorphins jumping. It also made me realise it’s time to find an interest aside from navel gazing, playroom tidying and zombie party organising.
TONIGHT’S MENU: Don’t care! I’m going to the pub for a friend’s birthday, while man-flu-riddled husband stays at home with the Sprogs. As proof that I’m not depressed, just “low-mood”, I’m really looking forward to it. So there, Husband.