Chaos and Fury Incarnate

Last week was a monster. Tuesday hit like a hurricane, and it was all go. I helped someone in the middle of domestic violence phone the police, handed in my notice at work and narrowly avoided a pile-up, when someone’s car either blew a gasket or caught fire. That was just Tuesday.

Wednesday brought a three-hundred person celebration of the UNCRC’s 30th anniversary in Cardiff, for which I took photos and covered on social media. It was full of jubilance and energy, but truly exhausting. Thursday was remarkably quiet, lulling me into a false sense of security for Friday.

Friday brought a long work day in a largely empty office, and my brother’s engagement party. I was late leaving the house to drive to my parents to get the taxi to the party, and I think I finally discovered my final form. It was going as fast as the speed limit allowed with a half eaten KFC twister wrap in one hand, and making the ever-diplomatic ‘wanker’ motion with the other. That was aimed at the turd in the BMW who tail-gated me for twenty minutes and then, when we were on an open and clear straight road, scream around me so close I could count his nostril hairs. I am become chaos and fury incarnate, I attract the chaos to me, like a magnet.

I got to my parent’s late, so we cancelled the taxi and I drove us over – exactly what was needed, as it turned out. I had Freelancing for Creatives training Saturday morning, explaining the ins and outs of the legal bits of making money as a freelance. Delivered by CULT Cymru, by the by, and well worth checking out, especially if you’ve never done anything like that before, and like me, have no idea what the different classes of National Insurance contributions are.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was doing a solid zombie impression. Seeing the original Blade Runner in the cinema with my dad on Sunday afternoon was a nice tonic, however. It’s his favourite film, and I love the fact that seeing something that you love on the big screen, even if you’ve seen if before, can give a fifty-six year old man a quieter version of the exuberance that ten year-olds have coming out of Marvel films.

I rounded out Sunday night by collapsing into a heap of hairy, jelly-like flesh and jutting bones, and chowing down on Brene Brown’s ‘The Call to Courage’ on Netflix. Brene’s empathic, funny delivery of her anecdotes and the findings from her research all come together to highlight what is ultimately a very positive message, and I’d recommend a watch for anyone who’s feeling disconnected and trodden on.

So far, this weeks seems like it’ll be much more sedate, but we’ll see. It is what it is.

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