Faulty?



English Electric Refrigerator Ad, 1950
by alsis35 @ flickr

So, the repairman is here, repairing our brand new fridge.  Why should a ten-day old fridge need repairing?  That’s the question I’ve asked, futilely, a number of times over the last 24 hours.  They should be replacing this “brand new” fridge, and not repairing it.  But the timing and a tide of unbending service staff are against me.



So, what do I do when the stress of an unsolvable problem hangs heavy upon me?  I open my pink laptop and I write. It’s an instant panacea for my woes.  Like a drug, I can feel the calm seeping again into my veins as I type.  The stress clutching at the back of my skull begins to unfurl and starts to slink away. 

Does this mean I’m just a tiny bit unhinged?  Or faulty, like the fridge? 



Quite possibly.  I’m open to that.  I’m also open to the power of having a tool as richly and instantly rewarding as an open laptop as my stillpoint.  There are worse ways to bear up - or buckle - under pressure. 

But I do well to remind myself that a row or three of words is a curiously fragile path to tread on the way to wellbeing.