Because I am worth it.

At present I feel a touch bitter, angry and resentful. And teetering slightly on the verge of hysteria.

The day started promisingly. I was up early as I wanted to be at work early, which would enable me to leave on tim.

Pulling the curtains open, I saw that the rain was pelting. Never mind – that umbrella, purchased on Saturday, to deal with the downpour on the pro-choice protest march, was resting in my stylish man-bag, waiting to be called into use.

My blood sugar was low. This is an ominous foreboding of a troubled day ahead. When my sugar is low I am cranky. Monday mornings are bad enough but borderline hypoglycaemia is a helpful finishing touch for an irritating day.

I exited my building. The rain was pouring down. I reached for my umbrella – but it wasn’t to be found. It was upstairs, resting on the table where I’d left it the previous evening. Curses. If I went back upstairs I would miss my bus. If I carried on regardless I would get wet. It was the Sophie’s Choice of early morning dilemmas.

I’d just have to get wet.

Sullenly, I trudged the twenty minute hike towards my stop. Focus on the bright side, I thought. Early to work, means early to leave.

I was on time for my bus. But then… nothing arrived. Standing  in the open air – no bus shelter where I wait, the deluge continued. Some raindrops landed directly into my eyes causing a piercing stinging sensation. My clothes were soaked through to skin. The no-show of the 8.15 bus meant that the 8.30 bus felt intimate. In the sense that it was jammed full of soaking people. There was a sodden, rain-soaked stench of misery in the air.

Arriving at my desk, later than usual, I switched on my computer. I scanned my work email for emergencies. Thankfully there were none. I switched on Bookface and my senses were cruelly assaulted by some drivelly story about why I am ‘worth it’.

Any advert that tells me that I ‘deserve’ something; or that I am ‘worth it’ or that I should ‘spoil myself’ makes me want to tear out my fingernails. These are so nothingy, so meaningless. Brainless drivel to reinforce a fake sense of entitlement in the minds of consumers. The sense of bovine stupidity of these adverts really enrages me. They can be classed as written acts of violence against the English language – along with words like ‘eateries’ and ‘street food’. Words and lingo designed to make you spend, spend, spend. And to be the best consumer you can possibly be.

I am well aware of how irrational this all sound.

But when my blood sugar is low – this is caused by grade-A, Type 1 diabetes, not any new-fangled probiotic gluten intolerant mung-bean allergy – I know that I am a touch demonic. Slightly crazed and incoherent. And full of irritation and gripes.

An extra slice of toast with jam will eliminate these symptoms in due course. But for the moment I will just live with the panicked sweats.


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