In general, I no longer go outside. It’s hard to explain. Unless you’ve felt it yourself, once you hear that you think Oh-oh, you look away but you think She’s bonkers, a little case of the Do-Lallies here, because who doesn’t go outside? Well, excuse me, I don’t. Get over it. Once I returned from university I had this dread pressing in on my chest. If I got to the front door my legs stopped working. That was it. I couldn’t breathe. I’d turn back in and sit on the arm of Nan’s chair. But the feeling didn’t pass. Glasses of water, air, deep breaths, blowing in a brown paper bag that had been emptied of onions, arm-pinches, Vicks inhaler, hot water with Vicks, more air (fanned Clare Champion), more water (sparkling), vinegar, a squirt of lemon, and a mouthful of whiskey, made no difference, neither did the little parade of the parish’s amateur psychiatrists who came and sat on the bed and played a game of Questions-with-no-Answers. What is it you are afraid of, dear? Please.
