Oh the stories we tell ourselves! Jo Carroll
I’m in Lanzarote - not travelling, for a change, but just dossing about having a holiday. The sun is lovely and warm, the beer is lovely and cold - so all is well. (Apart from the Brexit shambles, of course.) Except for one, very minor, event - and the stories I have told myself about it. When I came to get ready for bed last night, I couldn’t find my nightdress. In an attempt make sense of its disappearance I concocted several stories: I must have put it somewhere stupid. So I checked the bathroom, all drawers and cupboards. The fridge. No nightdress. The cleaner must have put it somewhere stupid - the bathroom, all drawers etc. No nightdress. The cleaner had stolen it! Why do such a thing? It’s a ratty old nightdress! I’ve has shampoo and toothpaste stolen before, but never clothing. How dare she ... Then, in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that it might have been swept up with the laundry ... how could I have thought ill of my lovely cleaner, she woul...