Everything just seems “not quite right”.
I’m not going to be able to explain this very well.
If, at all!
The alarm goes off. I had already woken almost an hour earlier. F had opened the window and turned the fan off. He is Italian and drafts are like some black magic. Drafts make you ill and can, probably, kill you. Therefore the fan, excused by the need for the dogs to keep cool, had been left on for a few nights. But the weather has “broken”. It’s not so hot (although still hot by British standards). Therefore we can now turn the fan off. Personally, we could keep the fan going all summer – however, not for him.
Instead the window is open although the shutters are drawn.
But Friday is bin day. The bins from the apartment block have to be put outside. The guy comes around 5.30 a.m. to do this. He is noisy but it’s not so bad if the windows are closed – open he might as well be dragging them past the bottom of the bed!
I wake up. And then it’s difficult to get back to sleep with all the noise and so I get up and close the windows.
So, back to where we were. The alarm goes off. I feel like I’ve been drinking the night before – which I had, of course. With A. And I promised not to blog about it, so I won’t.
Anyway, that’s not the point.
Unusually, instead of turning the alarm to “snooze” mode, giving me an extra five minutes (not of sleep, of course, since I am always worried that, inadvertently, instead of pressing snooze, I have pressed “dismiss”), I get up.
It’s all a bit sudden. And all a bit early. And, for some reason, it’s all quite wrong as if I have forgotten something.
I go to the kitchen and switch the coffee machine on. This is normal and, yet, it doesn’t feel quite normal.
It’s as if I am not quite in my body and yet I am still controlling it. It is just taking a bit if effort.
I go to the bathroom to shave. I am doing the normal things without thinking and, yet, I am having to think. I am having to make myself and my limbs and my fingers do things. Obviously, I know HOW to make them do things but this morning I am having to concentrate to get them to do anything.
And, yet, they seem, sometimes, to be doing things on their own, as if I am, in fact, not needed nor indeed part of the act.
I shave, shower and get partly dressed and then I go back to the kitchen to press the button to make the espresso pour into the cup below the nozzle and press the switch so the steam can pressurise to make the frothy milk.
I return to the bathroom to dry my hair.
I wonder if I should wake F up. He had said, earlier in the week, that today he would get up at 6.30. But there is something in my head saying that we had a conversation last night and he told me that it was not necessary now because “someone else was going to do it”. Whatever “it” was that he was going to do.
Except that I’m not sure if I had the conversation with him or not.
I weigh up the possibility that I had, in fact, just dreamed that we had the conversation. Was it real or not? Should I wake him to check or not?
But part of me is certain that the conversation was real and not a dream.
And, in my partial, out-of-body-experience state even thinking is by extreme effort.
But something is wrong.
I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. That sort of achy, butterflies thing. As if you’re going for an interview. I push myself forward and do the milk.
Perhaps, actually, I am dreaming. Except this cannot be a dream because everything is real. And, yet, I know that in a dream everything feels real so who knows?
I sit and have my coffee, reading the web pages that I normally read – doing the things that I normally do but with this very uneasy feeling that I should be doing something else. Or maybe that something is about to happen? It’s not exactly a feeling of dread although it isn’t pleasant.
For sure, something is wrong.
I realise I am going to be a little late abut I am finding it hard to motivate myself to move. Much as now, I am finding it hard to motivate my self to type. To think. To do anything.
Yet I do get up and wash up and clean my teeth and gel my hair and go back to the kitchen to put my shoes on. Piero comes to say “hello” and I give him a stroke.
I leave the flat. As I reach the internal courtyard, I light up my cigarette. It’s not the first this morning, of course. I’ve already had the usual three. As I walk towards the door of the building I feel for the car key in the bunch in my hand. But the keys are different – lighter – and missing the car key because, actually, these are F’s keys. Damn! I KNEW I should have changed them last night.
The lift is at the bottom. I take the lift to my floor and go in and swap keys.
I reach the car and get in. It still doesn’t feel quite right. I am worried that, at some point, I shall lose my ability to control my limbs which is still taking some effort. I am still not wholly inside my body but neither am I outside of it.
I drive to work. Things seem to be “in my way”. I try to concentrate on driving like you do when you’re a little drunk. You know? When everything requires you to do something that normally you “just do”. But I’m not drunk. This is the same and not the same. I feel like I’m going to have an accident. Like some sort of premonition.
This feeling of an almost impending doom won’t go away. No, something is most certainly not right.
And I still have it. Not quite so bad as this morning but, all the same, it’s still here.
So, there you have it.
Not explained at all well but I just can’t seem to put my finger on it.
Can’t wait ’till I’m home. Thank goodness it’s Friday.