Recent events have left me more tired than usual. This week I’ve gone back to work and I’m feeling the combination of missing my family (who I’ve been with all day, every day for the last two weeks) and a general sense of being knackered.
Yesterday morning I stood in line to pay at the petrol station and slowly zoned out while listening to the music being played. It was a French pop tune, which was an odd thing to be played in an English petrol station. That, I thought to myself, makes a nice change. The next song was French pop too, then the DJ came on and he was speaking in French.
Instead of reasoning that someone had decided to change the working day by streaming a French pop channel instead of the usual banalities of Jack FM or BBC Radio 1 or 2, I started a spectacular mental drift that had me believing I was in a French motorway service station. Where, I wondered, were we going? Were the family in the car? Had I brought enough Euros?
Just as soon I snapped out of it and was on my way back to the real world.
Much later, as I was putting my son to bed I picked up a book and read a letter written by Michelangelo to his father, complaining about how his assistants were ripping him off.
It was that sort of day.