I’ve got a fair bit on my plate at the moment: two colliding work-related deadlines, a pop-up bookshop on Saturday, the small matter of a mass cycle protest and related election campaign to help organise and – last but not least – the small matter of the village litter pick on Sunday.
Well, I say small, but it’s the litter pick that appears to be occupying most of my mental stress cycles. Not the litter pick itself – I think I have got that more or less under control although many a slip and all that – but the fact that after the litter pick there is traditionally a tea, and serving the village a tea is no light matter. In the past, in my innocence, teas just appeared magically in the village hall whenever there was a village event, complete with a small army of sensibly shod older ladies who could always be heard having way more fun in the kitchen than those sitting down with their tea and enormous array of cakes. It was only as the weekend approached that it began to dawn on me that the tea wasn’t actually going to magically appear, complete with army of helpers, unless I personally did something about it in my new role as secretary-of-the-community-council-oh-and-apparently-organiser-of-everything*.
A few frantic emails to people who looked as if they might know how to summon a tea or a little-old-lady army has elicited some advice and an offer of baking and I think I now have the matter under control, although time will tell. Who knows, with any luck the army of ladies may even appear and take over – although even if they don’t, I think nobody will die of thirst and they won’t be talking about the litter pick with no tea for the next decade. But do please remind me why it is I thought that quitting our jobs and leaving the rat race and London behind would make life less stressed?
It may be time to downshift again. And stay downshifted this time…
* I am about 99% certain that when the secretary was a man, he did not organise the teas but I haven’t quite got to the bottom of how that worked.