I have flipped the calendar to July. My late-night bid to organise the universe.
This little dog is having second thoughts. So many, in fact, that he wonders if they might be third thoughts. It started as a twinge of panic and then grew, overnight – like to-do lists and the washing up. This morning he woke up with a frog in his throat. But he couldn’t swallow it with a slurp of water like he would a normal frog. This one was a lodger. A quick whizz round the garden didn’t do anything so he just snoozed in the sun, hoping the twinge and the frog would relocate. Dusk arrived with the click of a kettle and talk of Monday. And then someone took this picture. Froggy twinge still there, he stares into space. He has to swim a mile in three weeks’ time. This is what they call Sunday night fever.
His expression is unnervingly similar to mine. I walk to the mirror to check. It’s true. I also have a frog in my throat and a twinge of panic which will grow when my head full of third thoughts hits the pillow. The swim is exactly three weeks away. It doesn’t help that I fell off the training plan for the last… far too long to admit on a swimming blog.
Disappointment kept me company for a few days before handing me over to his lifelong friends, Despondency and Denial. Quite the party. A house party gone horribly wrong. This lot are the guests who always overstay their welcome, still lurking after breakfast the next day, and the next. They’re the ones who put frogs in your cereal and put panic in your tea. Sunday nights are when they strike. Just look at the poor dog and you’ll see.
What these guests don’t realise, however, is that they’ve been spotted. And this is key. The dangerous Ds slink out when they’re told it’s over. They’re terrible company, after all.
Phew. Me and dog say adiós, slamming the door. Tea tastes better. Frogs hop home. First thoughts settle in: swimming tomorrow!