I am sweating the small stuff.
The things that are putting me into a lather of anxiety are trivial, footling, in the context dealing with the psychic scars I am inflicting on my children, the grave health worries of family and friends, finances that patently don't add up, keeping my job. That properly frightening stuff is hidden behind a smokescreen of lost pieces of paper and the sourcing of replacement wind up aliens.
1. I am worried about how to walk the weepette with a knee the size of the Duchy of Luxembourg and whether I can stand the shame of returning to the Dr Kevorkian of knees, sheepishly confessing that I was TOO CHICKEN to turn up for the series of injections he prescribed me. I'm sorry, Dr Kevorkian. But an injection that requires an initial injection of lidocaine to bear the pain of the injection is an injection too far for me.
2. I am worried that my canines are yellower than my other teeth and look awful. And that I am not sure I can bear the pain of tooth whitening again, so infinitely worse than childbirth (No hyerbole. It was way worse, I have very sensitive teeth and that neuralgic pain is much nastier than an honest to goodness, ripped stem to stern contraction). This combined with my piggy lashless eyes and elephant man knee will condemn me to life as a hideous recluse. Neighbourhood children will dare each other to knock on my door and run away before I drag my limping, gin sodden carcass out to snarl at them.
3. I will be a recluse in an entirely empty house, because I am terrified of Ikea and only own a hammer, three bent picture hooks and a screwdriver set from a Christmas cracker. I cannot build Kinder toys satisfactorily, let alone flat packs. Nor do I have any prospect of seducing anyone into assisting me, see 2, above.
4. I am worried that there will never be a day when Fingers doesn't have at least one verucca. And that I will be too chicken to burn them off myself, so soon his entire foot will be one massive verucca and he will walk like a deformed London pigeon and be taken into care and never become a professional Techtonik dancer.
5. Ditto Lashes and tooth decay. Soon he will be like Alan, the small boy at my childminder's whose parents were in charge of emptying the bubblegum machines outside newsagents shops (mid 1970s) who, aged 4, had barely a tooth to his name.
6. I am inordinately worried at the prospect of having to visit the municipal Service des Etrangers again to change my address. This is what cognitive behavioural specialists would describe as a rational fear, or at least they would if they had ever lived in Belgium. The Service des Etrangers is where hope comes to die. It is staffed by black belt sadists in woefully inadequate numbers. One, two or three visits (each visit lasting in excess of 3 hours, I am not exaggerating, back me up here Belgian residents) are never enough, however many illuminated manuscripts, GCSE certificates, Green Shield stamps, signed photos of Johnny Halliday and fragments of the True Cross you bring with you.
7. I have just agreed to buy various things from the previous tenant for €200. Whilst I know I have bought a dishwasher and cooker, I have NO IDEA what the third thing is, and was too embarassed to ask. All I know is it is in the bathroom and the word "éponge" was involved (towelling, or sponge). Presumably she hasn't sold me a sponge? Or a bathmat? I will not know until I get there, and will probably hate it. What towelling item could possibly be unwieldy enough to have to be left behind? I am getting a olfactory premonition of mildew.
8. HSBC. I can't say anymore because I get sweaty palms.
You get the picture. The comments box is there, welcoming and non-judgmental, for your own trivial worries.