I go to my sister's and tell her everything: every ridiculous irrational thought that i have been having in the hours that i have laid awake after the panic attack. I have thought of a million different reasons for this to be happening now, and i need to tell someone so that i don't feel like i'm losing my mind. I am alternatively incredibly anxious and then feel really spaced out. I've already been to the doctors and he's given me fluoxetine. It won't start working for a couple of weeks. My body is screaming, "But what about now?" but of course those words don't come out of my mouth. I don't want to take drugs for depression, i'm certainly not going to prompt him to give me tranquilizers.
My sister manages to make me feel normal. I go home exhausted.
Later on my ex rings me for a lift to the train station. I pick him up and feel like the painfully slow pace of the traffic is going to make me start screaming and crying. We get to the station drop off point and there is Alan Bennett! He's standing there looking like a photograph of himself, with his taupe raincoat and his scarf tucked in to the top, following the V of the buttons of the coat. I can't believe it!
I drop J off and drive away, thinking, "I should have stopped. He was just standing waiting to be picked up. I should have just said hello, and said, 'Hey, Alan, how funny is this? Three years ago, i started collecting stories for a book that i called Untold Stories. Then you republished your collection last year with the same name! I was gutted. You nicked my title! But it's okay because i'm using it for my blog title now and i'm going to call my book something else. Even funnier: i took my book to a published writer for some advice a couple of years ago and he said it reminded him of your Talking Heads!'"
He would have hated me wouldn't he? Lunatic thoughts.