In which Betty seeks (and finds) Equilibrium

Marking and reporting hell seems to hit harder each semester. It lasted for half a term this time – that’s some serious hell-time, and I wasn't the only one who struggled. In combination with everything else going on around me I suppose it’s little wonder that I fell in a heap.

After almost 2 weeks of doctor-ordered rest I had to go back to school – and what a shaky old time I had of it. Exams had to be marked, there was an Everest of paperwork to do, and the end-of-year activities were full-on. It was ugly, and I drifted through the days like a ghost, mostly, trying to keep my head down. One big panic attack, bucketloads of misery and (a bright spot!) a very successful Morris Dancing workshop, run by ME (yes you read that right) later, I’m pleased to report that I limped – ok, crawled – to the finish line, horribly battered and bruised, but still breathing.

In amongst all of that there was a lovely visit from Dad & Diana, who came over from Christchurch for Boomerang Boy’s wedding; the wedding itself and the purchase of Chez Betty in Mallacoota; the relocation of much of my furniture to the aforementioned Chez Betty and the acquisition of a new housemate in Canberra.

 Mr & Mrs Boomerang Boy - beaut day, beaut location, sterling weather, stellar company!

 The Groom, with Mummy & Grandies (Mummy is the one in green)

Two new housemates, actually.

My daughter Kate (the Tetris Queen) and her evil sidekick Aldwyn Grandkitty have taken up residence with me – a mutually beneficial arrangement that should save us both some money. Aldwyn has made the place his own, and entertains us by climbing doors and curtains. As a cat lady who has been without cats for several months now, I am amused by this, in the same way that grandparents are amused by the antics of children when they no longer have to raise them. The Tetris Queen is finding the challenge of fitting her stuff into my house, um, challenging. Surrounded by boxes, we bumble along one day at a time and drink a lot of cider. It’s nice.

I’ve spent the last 2 days in Mallacoota doing a lot of nothing. Very Good Medicine. My modest little house is just about set up for holidaymakers, and I’ve spent plenty of time enjoying the outlook from the back yard (and the front yard, which is lovely) and the antics of the wildlife. I’ve been feeling the school-induced stress just evaporating, the way it always does in this magical place – ah, Equilibrium, there you are!

Meltdown

There probably isn’t much in this world that’s more embarrassing than sitting in a classroom full of teenagers and being utterly unable to stop tears from pouring down your face. Except perhaps doing it twice.


What triggered it? Who knows? Sleeplessness, exhaustion and relentless overwork, more than likely. Whatever the cause, the descent into marking and reporting hell put me over the edge this semester. My brain, over-tired, decided that if I wasn’t going to give it a break, it was going to take a break of its own.

When I couldn’t stop crying, my head of faculty sent me home via the doctor. The doctor put me off work.
I didn’t cook a single meal for myself. I rarely ate. I slept a bit. I babbled inanely on Facebook, just to have some communication with the outside world, to prove to myself that I was still compos mentis (because everybody knows how much brainpower Facebook demands, right?)

I decluttered the house, but couldn’t declutter my mind.

I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think straight. I still had to get my reports written. It took me about four days to churn out some embarrassingly bad reports (wonder if I can get four days of sick leave restored? Hmmm, probably not. And unfortunately I now have no sick leave left.)

I’ve been back at school for 5 days now and I’ve cried almost every day. I feel like a ghost, drifting through the days and trying to hold it together. Some days I manage better than others, but I have to show up for work every day for the next 3 weeks; have to supervise and mark exams, proofread reports, go to meetings; have to listen to the very public digs of a bullying boss. What the hell am I doing to myself? A job is not supposed to reduce a person to this, to strip a person of their sense of self worth and turn them into a gibbering and inadequate wreck. I’m better than this.

An hour ago I marked my last essay for the year. Can I have my brain back now, please?

The Cruiser Quest - an unexpected twist

I went to the GP (that's the doctor GP, not the motoGP) this morning, to get my xray results. The good news is that my bone has mended. The bad news is that it's going to be pretty fragile for a while yet, so I need to be careful. I was given the heads-up about that by my lovely GP a while ago anyway, along with the exhortation to 'get thee a cruiser' - so, no surprises there.

Next stop was Eurotune, the Triumph dealership in Queanbeyan. Helen & Anders were really helpful. I sat on an America - HUGELY imposing and very heavy. It was parked on a very slight slope, but I couldn't haul it upright off the side-stand, so that was that. Bye Bye America. Next -  the lovely Bonneville. The T100 was, alas, too tall. The SE was a much better fit, although I still couldn't get my feet flat, possibly because of the position of the pegs. Who on earth put them right where I would put my feet in order to get them flat on the ground? I wonder whether the pegs can actually be moved? Straddle-walking the bike would be pretty much an impossibility, coz my little legs won't touch the ground if I stretch out past the end of those bloody pegs. Sheesh, I hate being this short! I booked a test ride anyway, for next Monday.

That sweet Harley Sportster 883 Superlow has really taken my fancy, so I headed to Robbo's Motorcycles back in Canberra to have another sit on it and to book a test ride. Lo and behold, Blake, the sales guy, said I could have a ride on it this arv. I fanged home to get my gear and fanged back to Fyshwick in record time.

And then I couldn't do it. (This is the bad bit. Look away if you don't want to see a grown woman cry.) I sat on that nice, low, easy-to-ride, beaut little bike and the last 6 years of riding just evaporated. I was back at Stay Upright with my heart thumping out of my chest and tears in my eyes, so terrified that I couldn't move. WTF?

Blake was brilliant. I would've been fine once I actually got out on the road, and I think he knew that. Another few minutes and all would've been ok, I think (maybe). The boss, though, told him to pull the pin on the test ride. How farking embarrassing. Blake was an absolute champion:

"Don't beat yourself up over it - the last time you were on a bike you fell off and broke your pelvis. And this is an unfamiliar bike, unfamiliar riding style. Why wouldn't you be nervous? Be kind to yourself."

I still felt like the world's biggest loser. I'm giving myself tonight to be a big sook, then tomorrow I'm going to give myself a very stern talking-to. I wonder whether it would be useful to get out on the road on something more familiar, just for my first ride, post-accident? A little GPX or something small like that? Despite the sporty ride position, it'd get me out there in the traffic on two wheels, juggling levers etc.

The other thing that I guess has bothered me is this - I've never taken a bike for a test ride in my life. I've never ridden anybody else's bike. I've never test-driven a car. I'm so nervous about the possibility of damaging someone else's ride that I just can't do it. Maybe THAT's the problem (in which case the previous paragraph about test-riding a little GPX is rendered null and void!)

I think if I were to just buy the bloody bike I'd be able to ride it out of the showroom, no probs - but then, what if I hated it after 50kms? That has never happened with any of my other bikes - I've fallen in love with each one (especially my last SV) almost instantly - but what if??? What if this horrible fear means I've lost my nerve altogether?  Wouldn't I know it already? Wouldn't that have manifested as a "Hmmm, don't think I'll bother getting another bike" mindset? Surely my desperate need to get back on a bike means that I haven't lost my nerve, right? That this is a temporary setback, yes?

Okay, so tonight - perhaps some self-indulgent snivelling, maybe even a pizza - and definitely a Wild Turkey while I feel sorry for myself... Tomorrow, a big bowl of HTFU for breakfast, and it'll be a new day. Thank goodness.

After the Panic...

Something very strange happened today.

Last week was not a good week. It was, in fact, double-plus ungood, and then some. After Tuesday's panic attack I came home and let the poison out – all the crap that I'd bottled up came pouring out in a torrent of tears. On Wednesday morning I was wearing my Scare the Children face – big puffy froggy eyes – and felt as drained as one of Dracula's favourites, so I stayed home, exhausted. Same on Thursday.

By Friday I was physically, if not mentally, in a fit state to return to school. On playground duty I tried to stay close to the walls, so no-one could come up behind me. It was shithouse. No Year 10 on the timetable for that day, though, which was a plus. And then there was the weekend.

After lunch on Saturday with some ex-teaching colleagues, affectionately termed 'the coven', I went to school today, reassured, and armed with an arsenal of strategies, 'just in case'. (Thanks, ladies – you are wonderful!) Nice Mark took me out for dinner on Saturday night, and on Sunday I declared war on Cat Piddle in my house. Quite a productive weekend, it was...

And then... I taught Year 10 this morning. Yes, I was nervous – how would they behave after last week's disaster? How would I behave? Could we face each other, or would one/some of us run screaming from the room?

This is where the weird thing happened.

It's very hard to explain – there was nothing tangible – and yet I felt somehow closer to the class. It was as if a barrier of some sort had been removed, and they were more accepting of me. All I can think is that suddenly, after I explained to them what triggers my panic attacks, they saw me as a real person rather than an authority figure? Who knows...very very weird.

Here, I think, is one of the strengths of my school – a lot of the kids are not very academic; they struggle, and many of them actively resist the academic rigours of the place. BUT – amazingly, this group seems to have recognised that particular frailty of mine and decided that it makes me more real(?) human(?) or something. In many places that would be seen as an exploitable vulnerability. These kids didn't see it that way. There seemed to be a real 'connection' in our class discussion today. I'm not saying they were perfect little angels or anything like that – I still threatened them with Fatal Beatings and they still rolled their eyes – but it was different somehow. Hard to put my finger on it, but it was totally unexpected, and a huge relief.

Maybe I will survive my return to the classroom after all.

Uh-oh...

So much for my triumphant return to the classroom.

I think I have made a monumental mistake, and now I am rooted, not to put too fine a point on it.

What on earth made me think I was ready for a return to teaching? Teaching is not a job for anyone with fragilities. I've always known that – but I thought, after four and a half years since the attack, that I was over my fragilities. Evidently not.

I used to be a good teacher. Now I know that I'm not the teacher I used to be. Today clinched it. Today, a few of my Year 10 boys thought it would be funny if one of them jumped out behind me, shrieking, as I made my way to class.

Yep, hilarious stuff. The consequence? A panic attack (damn, and I thought I was better). To my credit, I held it off and held it off and held it bloody off for about 15 minutes (I'm clearly getting much better at this), and then I just had to leave the classroom because my heart was pounding fit to burst, I couldn't breathe and I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I spent the rest of the day battling episodes of breathlessness and panic.

Can you imagine how embarrassing it is for a 51 year old woman to be in that situation in front of a room full of 15-16 year olds?

Even worse – NOW WHAT??? I'm supposed to go back there tomorrow and fight the good fight, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole somewhere and hide. I'm mortified and I'm so fucking miserable I could die, and I've burned my bridges. I feel as if my back's to the wall, and I really am at a complete loss – what to do next? Clearly I am not fit to be in a classroom - yet? (if ever?)

Shit.

Chillax or Chillanx? The Monster in the Closet

The Breakfast Magpie - she would sit and stare at me and ask for breakfast every day. Very bold, she stood in the tray, watching, as I put seed into it.

Mallacoota! Beautiful, magical, wonderful Mallacoota – my favourite place! Booking a whole week here was my reward for surviving my first term back as a teacher.

I discovered the joy of birds here in Mallacoota a couple of years ago, and now I can't stay away. Every trip here is a delight.

I've never been to Mallacoota in winter, and this trip feels different somehow. My friends the satin bowerbirds aren't here (where do they go in winter?), and the lovely king parrots outnumber the thuggish but beautiful rainbow lorikeets at the moment.

Also, I had, quite frankly, a shitty ride down. I dithered and dallied, putting off the inevitable, and didn't even leave Canberra until nearly 10am on Saturday. Then I left and returned home to change my riding pants, which were too slippery on the AirHawk seat. At one stage (ok, two stages) I even considered driving Miss Kate's car down here. WHY??? The ghastly thought that I might be losing my riding nerve crossed my mind... I couldn't shake the thought that I was about to die horribly on my bike, and I knew if I gave in to that thought, I mightn't ever get back on the bike again. WTF? Where did THAT come from?

Welcome to Anxiety, Betty-style.

The ride here was crappy enough – so cold that in Cooma I stopped and put on wet weather gear to keep some of the cold out. I revved the heated grips up to full-strength and tried not to tense up in the cold – and failed miserably. The SV handled like a badly-behaved dog, probably because my frozen limbs were too stiff to relax. I kept thinking of cold tyres and frosty roads. It was not a nice ride, and I arrived all out of sorts.

After my last spill, back in early May on the way to the Unaugural, and the weeks on crutches, and the weeks driving a rental car, and the final realisation that in order to survive the kangaroos on the road home from school on those numerous occasions when I would have to be there well after dark, I would need a car.... and after purchasing said car... I'm a mess.

There, I've said it. It's out in the open. It's the monster in my closet. I'm scared of being scared of riding (again!). (hello, is there a shrink in the house?) Bloody cars!

I spent my first night here at the lovely Adobe Holiday Flats huddled in front of the fire, and the next day with a blanket around my shoulders until it was late enough to relight the fire. Mine host, the lovely Peter Kurz, even dropped by at dusk to make sure I hadn't carked it in my flat, as I hadn't so much as ventured outside once all day!

The following day I was bored with myself and my sookiness. I needed a big dose of HTFU. I rode into town for supplies, then spent much of the day reading and indulging a desire to be a hermit, and almost disappeared into a self-pitying vortex of my own introverted invention. Dammit, HTFU, Betty!

So I did. I decided to do the huge walk into town and back. That would challenge me! It's probably about a 10km walk altogether, and after only about 4kms I was ready to smack myself in the head, coz my crappy foot and my crappy hamstring (both on the same leg) were screaming at me. Then, of course, there was the return journey! What kept me going was the thought that if I stopped, I mightn't start again. Boy, did I overdo it!

My misguided hermit impulses got the kick in the head they deserved when I spoke to a lovely ancient man, nut-brown and with bright blue eyes and a long grey beard – he'd been canoeing on the inlet all day, and was parking his canoe and getting ready to ride his pushbike home just as I limped past on my way home. We had a wonderful chat. He wants to visit Canberra one day because he's never been there and he'd like to see the War Memorial and Parliament House. I felt revitalised after chatting with him, and realised I actually quite like interaction with my fellow human beings! (a revelation – I always thought I was so antisocial, but it seems I'm not!)

The electric blanket was a great help for my aching muscles last night, but then, at about 3am, I was woken up again by the same sound that has woken me up at around 3am every night since I got here... a sort of scrabbling sound in the wardrobe in my room; a scritching, skittering, monster-in-the-cupboard sound. Thank goodness I'm not a kid, coz I would've been crying about that bloody Monster in the Cupboard. As it was, I shone a torch at the offending cupboard, and did a perimeter check of the flat. I even got ultra-brave, and flung open the wardrobe door – and was not devoured by a fanged, clawed monster. Yay!

So.... these monsters in my cupboards, both literal and metaphorical – what am I to make of them? It's easier said than done to dispel them with Betty Mind-Power, when so much of that Mind-Power is being eroded by Anxiety. Monsters shit me.

I took the bike to the auto-shop today, and the mechanic there gave it a quick once-over. My paranoia can take a break – the bike's fine. Closet Monster #1 – gone!

The (literal) monster in the cupboard revealed itself this evening. It's (as the rational me suspected) a brush-tailed possum. Very cute. And IT was scared of ME! Closet Monster #2 - gone!

The monster in the closet - revealed!

And a very VERY cool thing happened today. I was immensely privileged to watch a lyrebird doing its thing this arv, and it was so beautiful and so unexpected that it made me all sniffly. I was within 2 metres of it! It was something I had never ever expected to see for myself – and it was truly magical and beautiful.

Doesn't look like much, scratching about on the grass. But oh, what a voice!

Monsters? What monsters? I love Mallacoota!

The Brisbane or Bust Adventure - Day 1

I meet the littlest Lemmiwink at last, and even get a giant burp for my troubles!

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The Great Adventure is underway!

I'm writing this from my room at the Deer Park Inn in Armidale. Have had an amazing day!

No anxiety stuff to speak of (ok, it was a 3 poo start to the day LOL – but that's a huge improvement!) My hands weren't shaking when I got the bike out of the shed; my heart wasn't racing...

So – got away at about 6.45am. Low black cloud hung over everything, and it wasn't long till I was feeling cold (yes, I had been through the agonising 'leathers or mesh' dilemma AND the 'will I be warm/cool enough?' discussion with myself while I was busily over-packing at 5am after a 3.30am wake-up.)

It was a bit of a four-seasons ride, really – I was cold well before I got to Lake George, where I pulled over and put on my wet weather jacket, to keep out a bit of the chill. A bit of blue sky at Goulburn was fleeting, and rain started a bit after Marulan.

On the M7, the sun came out just as I hit the 'incident' that slowed (actually, STOPPED) traffic for several kilometres. Great. I sat baking in my gear for the better part of 45 minutes, cussing and sweating. I did a bit of judicious lane-filtering wherever I could, simply to find a spot where I could take of the wet weather jacket, open the vents in my jacket and grab some much-needed cold water - but eventually got to a spot where lane filtering was not possible *sigh*.

Enough horribleness... I didn't get lost, I didn't fall off. No bits fell off the bike. YAY!

AND – I finally got to ride Thunderbolt's Way! I knew time would be an issue – I chose the “short” way to Armidale for a very good reason – visiting the littlest Lemmiwink and her lovely parents – so it was a bit of a bugger to have such a long setback so early in the day... For that reason I didn't do a lot of stopping, apart from refuelling and wee stops.

After passing through a lot of nice little towns like Booral, Stroud, Stroud Road – and Stratford (on Avon) – although a town LESS like Stratford-on-Avon won't be found anywhere else, I'm sure!) I made it to Gloucester. What a nice town!

At the servo I met up with a young bloke on a Triumph Sprint who was travelling from Melbourne to Grafton on as many of Peter 'The Bear' Thoeming's Top 100 rides as he could. I didn't get his name, but he was a cheery like-minded soul. I hope his ride on the Waterfall Way tomorrow will be all that he's hoping for.

Thunderbolt's Way is a great road – the bits at the beginning, just after Gloucester, are the best; picturesque, twisty, up and down – and the quality of the road surface is, um.... variable.

I was a bit concerned about the 'mist' that was hanging around, especially when I realised it was bushfire smoke – and especially when the wind picked up and the temperature increased dramatically. I had to ride a little bit fast at times to get away from the smell of smoke – but seriously, there was no escape! By the time I got to Walcha I had to start the old 'water inside the jacket evaporative cooling regime - it was stinking hot, and so dry that my contacts tried to glue themselves to my eyeballs - horrible!!!)

I got to Armidale after 5pm. The light was a weird yellow with all the smoke. Erk.

After a quick shower at the motel I went to visit the Lemmiwinkses, to pay homage to the baby – and what a little sweetheart she is!

'Don't look so worried, Julia - I've done this before!'

It's been a fabulous day! I am absolutely buggered, but looking forward to studying the maps over my bacon and cheese omelette breakfast tomorrow, and heading to Brisneyland!

Running on Empty

So... remember the Adventure I Could've Done Without? The trip to Accident and Emergency? The chest pains that turned out to be an anxiety attack?

Seems it was the beginning of an anxiety 'cycle'. I'm not familiar enough with Anxiety Disorder to know about this stuff – but apparently it's something that, if nipped in the bud, will go away fairly quickly. There was no nippage in this case. I semi-merrily trundled along, wondering why my lung capacity seemed to be shrinking.

After a few stressful moments on the Phillip Island pilgrimage and the ride home, I couldn't switch it off. I desperately needed to talk to my bloke, but he had issues of his own, and it was a bit like those cool domino set-ups where one single domino causes about a million other intricately-arranged dominoes to topple in a pattern resembling the annexation of Europe, or traces the outline of the Mona Lisa or something.

And then I just couldn't breathe. Well, obviously I could breathe enough to stay alive, but my lungs would only partially fill. After four days of fighting for breath, and getting increasingly frightened, I gave up and saw the doc.

Guess what? I got some short-term, heavy-duty froot-loop drugs to get me over the hump – a sort of low-dose Valium lookalike. Erk, do you know how scary that is? We've all grown up with stories of Benzo's being known as “Mother's Little Helper', and all the Stepford Wife types being whacked out on Benzodiazapenes (is that how you spell them?). The last thing I want to do is swap a head problem for a drug problem..... Sheeeee-it!

I am assured, though, that within 2 weeks I'll be back to whatever passes for normal, apparently, and can wean myself off Mother's Little Helper. Phew. This anxiety is serious shit.

But then what?

Here's the sad bit....the fall-out...

Me and my bloke are no more. He's too laid-back and I'm too uptight – a recipe for disaster. We both recognise that, I guess, and both want to maintain the great friendship that existed long before he became 'my bloke'. But I still can't help feeling sad about the 'might've beens', and I still care about him well beyond the limits of 'friendship'.... Not sure how to get past that, but if there's a way, I'll find it, because I am Resourceful Betty.

So.... nil desperandum! The best fix for a sad-attack is a kickarse ride, so I have two in the pipeline before Christmas. Watch this space...

Random Observations

Some days are good days to stay under the doona.

Today is one of those days. A 2.30am wake-up. I still can't breathe properly – hard to fill my lungs. It's been like this, on and off, for 3 weeks, and chronic for the last 4 days. Then there was the nice little puddle of cat vomit on the floor this morning. Nearly went arse over in it. Thanks Oscar...

The loneliness of the long-distance lover is awful.

Miscommunication is too easy and resolution is too hard. Silences turn into voids. No such thing as make-up sex, just a festering sadness that won't go away.

The house appears to have shrunk.

How else to explain the fact that the giant dead fridge won't fit through any doorways? I may have to turn it into a fourth bedroom and rent it out.

My new trousers appear to have grown.

They're falling down my hips. If they get any bigger they are going to fall off and embarrass me terribly.

This Xanax isn't working.

Pilgrimage 09 - Phillip Island MotoGP Part 2

Day Two – In Which the Disasters (and the rain) Continue

There was a certain reluctance to leave the warmth of Leo & Di's place on Friday morning, but leave we did, all rugged up against more rotten weather.

It's only a hundred and something kilometres from Warburton to the Island, on some lovely roads – which weren't quite so lovely in the piddling rain, but never mind. We wrung every drop of value out of it, with the XJ misbehaving worse than ever. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and eventually, in desperation, we pulled into a car park at Pakenham and Clem changed the spark plugs. Ooh, that worked. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

Onwards and upwards, we made the Island by around mid-Friday and went our separate ways - Clem & gNat to Rockit's place, and me to Smack's. After the horrors of Thursday's ride I thought the worst was over, and promptly dropped the bike in the driveway of the house. Oops goes my new clutch lever, and oh dear, the gear shifter that had fallen off at Wang acquired a bit of a bend. As for me? Unscathed, apart from a whopping great lump on my shin and a shitload of damage to my pride.

The party people at the house were ready to rock and roll, and a night in Cowes just about did me in. I was fine till we tried leaving the pub. It was serious wall-to-wall people stuff. Actually, I can't write about it, because just thinking about it makes me breathe funny.

Fast forward to the house a little later, where more party people arrived. So many strangers in one day, and I couldn't switch off the anxiety, so I tried to drown it with red wine. I sort of succeeded, but I wasn't in good shape for Saturday's 'Beer Lap' of the Phillip Island circuit.

Froot Loops R Us

I suffer from Anxiety Disorder – a consequence of the attack in 2006 that I didn't think would keep rearing its ugly head as soon as a bit of stress came my way.

The panic attacks I've sort of got used to. They are hideous but they're acute, and the after-effects last maybe a day. They're familiar and they're finite.

What I really hate is a flare-up of the constant, chronic whoosh in the guts (it's the same whoosh I used to get as a kid on the swings, except it's no fun without a swing), followed by a massive spike in my heart rate, and difficulty breathing. When it's chronic the loop takes anywhere from 30 seconds to a couple of minutes, and it just keeps going ad nauseum....

The first (and I'd hoped the only) chronic episode was three years ago. I thought I was going to die. I thought that the strain on my heart would be too much for it and it would just stop. The loop was running about every 30 seconds, day and night. After 3 days of it I was going crazy. I yelled for help, the doctor diagnosed me and gave me the most disgusting medication ever. It was official – I was a froot loop.

The medication made me nauseous – I could hardly eat (lost a kilo in a week – wheeee, there's always a silver lining, ha ha!) had head-spins that made riding the bike risky and frightening, made my mouth taste like an iron foundry floor, gave me weirdo giant spider dreams and actually increased the anxiety (oh, good one!) I persevered for a week, then ditched the medication.

For me, riding my bike is the best medicine. I hopped on the bike and rode to Deniliquin, a little over 500kms away. And back again the following day. Riding is a great restorer of equilibrium. It puts me back in control.

So today, after work triggered another chronic episode the other day and I've been having the whoosh (NOOOOOO!), I took a giant restorative ride – a 560km trip that took in the twists of Brown Mountain and Clyde Mountain – and it took me over 250kms until the bad feelings went away. It was tough going, I have to tell you, sitting on that bike and feeling the whoosh of anxiety rather than exhilaration. When the exhilaration took over though.... Magic!

But take a step back to Friday morning at work. My boss was staggered that I let work affect me so badly (actually, it's not a conscious choice – it just happens...)

'It's only work,' he said. 'You shouldn't let it get to you.'

Hello? See, I hear that again and again from people in the Public Service, and I just don't get it. I can't operate that way. If I don't care about what I'm doing, why the hell would I spend a third of my life doing it? I just couldn't spend 8 hours a day of my very valuable, only-one-go-at-it life doing something I consider so meaningless that it just doesn't bother me when it all goes to shit.

Am I the only person who thinks that way? Work... um, single woman, mortgage, bills.... how the hell else am I going to live? And I can't spend all day having my brain anaesthetised and not giving a shit about what I do!

I quit teaching because I was so burnt out that I stopped caring – and I'm sorry – teachers have to care – how can they survive such a killer workload otherwise and be good teachers?

Maybe that's where I really belong – back in a school, trying to foster a love of the English language and a love of learning; caring about results; caring about actually making some kind of impact; working myself to death but feeling that it's all worthwhile, rather than working myself into a straitjacket because I'm the only one who takes my job seriously!

Maybe it's time to go back to my first love. Something to think about after my nice hot bath (oooh, aching muscles – haven't had an uninterrupted day of saddle-time like that for AGES! It was soooo good!)