Panic

List your symptoms:
Nauseous
Queasiness
Sore throat and limbs
Tired beyond belief

The medication has not yet kicked in except for all the side effects. One minute I crave crisps and butter, the next I want to lie on the bathroom floor in a foetal position, ready to stick my head in the toilet bowl and pray that tomorrow will never come. The rest of the time I sleep in my bed on my own. Matt has moved out of the bedroom for now. Even he complains that my behaviour resembles erratic at best.

UniCorn has texted me. She has also fallen ill. Different symptoms.

The boys have gone out. They wanted to get as far away from illness as possible. They kidnapped ChessBoy and as far as I know they are hanging out in a bar somewhere.

Although I have slept most of the day, I feel sleep deprived. I want to curl up in bed and sleep for ten days straight. But I have this song in my head. I had to get up and check out all my CDs. I remember some of the lyrics.

Panic on the streets of London

I remember it used to be a record. Vinyl. But I liked it so much that I bought the CD when it was finally released. It’s that old. It was out before vinyl was considered outdated. Back in the old days. I have kept my records tucked away in the closet. I broke my record player when I moved in here. Would probably not listen to the records anyway. Does anybody even remember the French band Indochine? Didn’t think so. And what was I thinking anyway?

There’s a man on telly right now. He has brown eyes. He is singing. He looks smashing. Arabic type. I have the volume turned down. He is all over the microphone and he looks good. Great, even. In a black suit and white shirt. And sneakers. He looks young and hip and way out of my league. It’s mesmerizing that people you don’t know can lure you in like that.

A new guest comes on. It’s a talk show. The host opens up her arms but the guest is not too sure if he should hug her. This must be the most awkward hug in the history of telly. If my mum and I were on telly, we would be the only ones to beat it.

Life plays with us, doesn’t it? I mean, it could be the medication talking but I think life messes with us. It’s like...alright, it’s a theory of mine.

It’s about balls. Not the testicular ones – ew – but tennis balls, baseballs, footballs, handballs, you name it balls. Good or bad days, you play ball. Whether you want to or not. That’s what life is about. You interact, you contact people, they contact you. You throw balls.

Some people are very good at catching whatever ball you throw. Hard or soft, baseball, tennis ball – whichever. It’s the coolest! You like these people. If you’re a bit like me, you end up loving these people because you’re just that intense. And you practise every day so that you end up being just as good at catching their balls.

Then you throw to somebody who can’t catch even if their life depended on it. If you like them, you keep trying. And trying. One more time. And then you give up because life is too short. You don’t understand how come it’s so difficult for them to catch a ball. If you like them, you are disappointed for a while. But you need to move on. You only have a certain amount of balls in your lifetime.

So game on and you throw and you catch and are very busy. Interacting.

One day you take a ball in the neck. It’s hard and leaves a mark and it hurts for days. You don’t know who threw it.

Could have been a friend you upset. Because at times you’re a bitch, but that’s part of the setup.

However, it’s more likely that it’s just life that tells you that you should consider yourself lucky to be alive and that you shouldn’t take life for granted.

Even if you want to snuff it right now and never ever want to face another person, problem or panic attack.

And it’s all coming back to me now:

Panic on the streets of London
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again
On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down
I wonder to myself
Hopes may rise on the Grasmeres
But Honey Pie, you’re not safe here
So you run down
To the safety of the town
But there’s Panic on the street of Carlisle
Dublin, Dundee, Humberside
I wonder to myself
Burn down the Disco
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music that they constantly play
IT SAYS NOTHING TO ME ABOUT MY LIFE
Hang the blessed the DJ
Because the music that they constantly play
On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down
On the provincial towns that you jog ‘round
HANG THE DJ HANG THE DJ HANG THE DJ
HANG THE DJ HANG THE DJ HANG THE DJ

(The Smiths, Panic)