Night-time spooks

Night-time spooks

Musings
Sonia Kelly

AND I don’t mean ghosts. The ones I have in mind, as you might say, are thoughts. These come, completely uninvited, during patches of wakefulness, or in the period between waking and getting up, when it’s not worthwhile going back to sleep.
They are obviously dredged up by George, my subconscious, who likes nothing better than to scare his hostess by producing negative scenarios. Vague aches become precursors of terminal afflictions and instances from the previous day herald imminent bankruptcy, or criminal prosecution (nothing is too exaggerated for George), in the middle of the night. You can try to block these spooks by switching on an imaginary television set and getting a blank screen and/or saying ‘so sleepy’ over and over to yourself.
It usually works.
If you wake too early – maybe there’s an hour before get-up time – George is ready, suggesting that one is too decrepit to struggle through the day.
I have found that the best way to subdue these negative suggestions is to substitute them for plans for the approaching day. What to wear, for instance, might be a consideration – should one dress for winter or summer, given the current weather map? What colour would be appropriate for anticipated events?
But, hey! George seems not to be aware of the Law of Attraction (the what-you-think-of-comes-to-pass law), and he interrupts the fashion soliloquy to point out the painful spot on the sole of my foot that may be developing into gangrene and will probably lead to amputation, thus preventing any routine activity.
Shut up, George!
Let’s go for the day’s menu. Well, breakfast needs no plan – just toast and coffee. Lunch … pasta, perhaps, with a section of sheep’s neck, surplus from a previous meal. This is such a useful dish that readers might like to share it: You take whatever bits of mutton (‘lamb’ in politically correct language), cooked or raw, and cut them up small. Fry in a saucepan, together with sliced onion and garlic. Then add as much macaroni as is required and cover with boiling water, to which you have added a stock cube. Simmer for about an hour, or until the water has been absorbed.
This line of thinking can lead to the possibility of having a party and meander on through party food to a guest list. But, needless to say, George is not far away and interrupts the compiling of the list to point out that with only one foot it may be difficult to organise a party.
Oh dear! Who the hell is George, anyway?
I dispose of him again and resume the list-making. A happy while passes. I mentally count the guests. My God - 40. “An expensive undertaking,” mutters George, and he has a point.
But, “Get thee behind me, Satan; sorry, George,” I reply and launch into thoughts of becoming rich. Think money and it will come to you. I remind myself and picture bank notes fluttering into my lap like leaves.
“Get a lottery ticket,” comes that insidious whisper, and I know at once that that is not the route to happiness – especially not if George has willed it. Indeed, it would mean that my 40 friends would quickly be reduced to zero – either from being insulted at not getting a hand-out or from not wishing to seem expectant.
Enough of that … I step out of bed and hit the sore spot. Ouch! Think positively, I tell myself. Right - maybe it’s only Athlete’s Foot ...