Drifting Days and The Gemsta

Do you ever have days when everything seems 'untidy' or 'not quite right'? I don't mean in the respect of finding old tea mugs left in the front room from last night, or cat hair all over the cushions on the kitchen chairs but days when you get up and feel 'odd' like something is going to happen, you don't know what but you can't settle until it does. And you do a lot of aimless wandering and random tasks like cleaning the skirting boards or thinking about making a patchwork tablecloth.

This doesn't happen to me very often, thank heavens, because it's not a state I like to be in. But it did today. I thought, I know, I'll check my biorhythms. Physically, I'm slightly under par, emotionally I'm almost in peak condition and intellectually I'm as low as I can get. That's it, then. I'm having a thicko day and I'm more than emotionally aware of it than usual. (Whilst I'm about it I check my biorhythms for 'Tiger Day' and am reassured to discover I shall be at a physical peak on the 10th so I'll be in good form for throwing chicken drumsticks and running like a mad thing if necessary.)

So no wonder I'm finding writing difficult at the moment. No intellectual capacity, you see. I've got plenty of editing to do so I'm not sitting on the sofa eating biscuits and watching Jeremy Kyle, but even when editing you have to be able to re-write bits 'n' bobs here 'n' there and a lot of my re-writing is, not to beat about the bush, drivel. But still there is this air of 'something's gonna happen and it's making me feel very testy.'

Mrs Poo sticks her head round the back door.
'You okay?' she says, which is unusual for her as the only creature Mrs Poo cares about as a rule is Mrs Poo. 'You look a bit testy. Nice skirting boards, by the way.'
'I'm fine,' I lie because, having been on the receiving end of Mrs Poo's brand of 'pull-yourself-together' psychology before, I don't think I'll be able to cope with a dose today. 'What's with the material?'
Mrs Poo is teetering under the weight of a bolt of orange and yellow checked waterproof/fireproof lightweight fabric.
'I was wondering if you could make a couple of racing driver jumpsuits for me,' says Poo.
'This is for your Formula One Massey Fergusson racing attempt, is it?' I ask, taking the material from Mrs Poo before she sinks into the snowdrifts still persisting in the back garden
'Yes,' says Mrs Poo. 'And make no mistake it's not just going to be an attempt. It's going to be a massive success!'
One thing I shall say for Mrs Poo is that she oozes confidence.
'Here are the measurements,' she adds, handing me a sheet of paper. I scan the figures and note that there are two different figures for inside leg. The one for 6 and a half inches is, I assume, Mrs Poo's.
'What about this one for 29 inches?' I say. 'You're going to have a lot of roll up on the legs if I make a suit for you to these measurements.'
'Ah,' says Mrs Poo. 'That suit is for my c0-driver. They're a bit taller than me.'
'A co-driver?' I say.
'Yes. Top secret so don't say a word. I don't want Honda or Maclaren finding out until the contracts have been signed,' says Mrs Poo, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
'Right,' I whisper back. 'So, who is it then? Someone famous?' I think of Lewis Hamilton or maybe Richard Hammond from Top Gear, in which case I may need to ask Mrs Poo to get him in so I can double check his inside leg measurement for myself. Just to make sure, you know, before I start cutting into the fabric.
'It's The Gemsta,' says Mrs Poo.
'The Gemsta?' I haven't a clue what she's talking about.
'Yes. And that's all I'm prepared to say on the subject. I've been very lucky to secure her. What she doesn't know about motor racing isn't worth writing about on a postage stamp with a very tiny pencil.' And off Mrs Poo trots to sort out the chestnuts that have starting spitting on her brazier.

And I thought my biorhythms were askew. You see, no matter how peculiar you think you are, you can always find someone who's worse. Even if it is a Formula One Racing Hen.

Taking into account today's low intellectual capacity I decide to chit my seed potatoes. Not too physically demanding and yet emotionally satisfying, it's a safe bet activity for a day when you're biorhythms are awry.