I Need a Bigger Glass

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I am tired.

Not “have you tried going to bed earlier?” tired. Ask me that and I may use my remaining energy to haunt you while still technically alive.

I mean tired on a cellular level. Somewhere inside me, a mitochondrion has turned off the lights and is pretending nobody’s home.

The Corporate Hunger Games continue. My body has resumed playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, except the donkey is me and the tail is another hospital appointment.

Yesterday, I tried doing something creative before my entire personality became a patient number and a rejected application.

I took Hazel and Eazy to Soester Duin with my Nikon Z50II.

Dogs. Sand. Trees. A camera.

Nothing asking me to explain, in 150 words, why I am passionate about contributing to somebody’s quarterly revenue.

And I managed some lovely snapshots.

For a little while, I could concentrate on something beautiful. The dogs got to be dogs. I got to be a person. My inbox could quietly decompose without supervision.

A brief interruption from something worth looking at

Soester Duin · Nikon Z50II · Photographs by Dani. Click any photo to view it in full.

Then we went home.

A rejection email was waiting.

For a role I applied for in May.

Fucking May.

How lovely to hear from the archaeological department.

Did you excavate my application beneath a former HR settlement? Was it found wrapped in linen beside a junior recruiter and a ceremonial copy of People Are Our Greatest Asset?

Five months to reject me.

By now, the role could have been filled, restructured, outsourced and eliminated in a heartfelt LinkedIn announcement about difficult decisions.

But thank you for letting me know you’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.

I had begun to worry you’d all died.

An optimism I now regret.

Meanwhile, the hospital has opened bookings for its festive programme.

November and December are filling up with appointments to inspect my “garage” and possibly clear it out.

Other people get Christmas-market invitations. I get confirmation that someone would like another look under the bonnet.

I would appreciate a loyalty scheme. Surely after enough invasive appointments, the next camera should go somewhere scenic.

I own a perfectly good Nikon. Let’s discuss a woodland location.

Outside, autumn break has begun.

Approximately fifteen children, aged five to eleven, are screaming beneath the apparent impression that silence causes organ failure.

All day.

A rotating shift system of shrieking, with enough operational continuity to suggest that one of their parents has finally mastered workforce planning.

I fantasise about sitting on the roof with one of those veterinary blowpipes.

Then I realise I am the obvious candidate for the tranquilliser.

Put me in a transport crate. Throw a blanket over it. Tell the hospital I’ve been released into a more suitable habitat.

On Saturday, Mike and I are going to Fright Nights at Walibi.

Haunted Disneyland. Knott’s Scary Farm, but with Dutch people explaining that the queue technically starts over there.

Mike has just started new medication for high blood pressure.

Naturally, we have selected an evening in which strangers leap out of cupboards and simulate our violent deaths.

Our leisure planning could probably benefit from an adult.

Still, I’m looking forward to meeting some professional monsters.

People with costumes, contracts and a clearly defined commitment to making me miserable.

After months of recruitment, I find that transparency refreshing.

A man with a chainsaw is remarkably clear about his intentions. He doesn’t ask me to complete a personality assessment before chasing me into a shed.

And the haunted houses have exits.

Actual, marked exits.

Nobody tells you the nightmare is an exciting opportunity to build resilience. You leave. The monster stays at work. Presumably he goes home later and complains about management.

Whatever Walibi has prepared, it will need to make a serious effort to compete with what’s happening next door.

At least the actors eventually remove their masks.

Anyway. I took some lovely photographs of the dogs.

I’m trying to leave that sentence somewhere the rest of the week can’t get its filthy hands on it.

I need a bigger glass.

Something between a wine goblet and a municipal reservoir.

With a lid.

The children are outside.