Post NAMA Depression - the Remedy!

I realised on the 4th of April - Easter Sunday - that NAMA-paralysis had taken control of my brain. I woke up with the word Anglo seared onto my brain, honestly. I had spent the previous three days following every post, tweet, radio and TV interview on the subject.

I had dragged myself out of bed each morning, since I was off work (not by choice I might add). I dragged myself from my PC at 2 am, 3 am, even later... I had calculated and recalculated how much I would end up paying for Anglo, for NAMA in general. I had day-dreamed about what tortures I would inflict on Seanie (Fitzpatrick), Patrick (Neary), Fingleton, Drumm, Cowen, Ahern, Linehan, the list goes on and on and on and on... I was burned the hell OUT.

To make matters worse, I had promised my little boy that I would take him, and his two best friends, out for the day on that particular day - Easter Sunday. Well, the state of the economy, the world, the political landscape, are inconsequential trivia to a nine-year old boy. And so they should be. So off we went to Cool Wood in Killarney.

The drive was fine - not too long. The children didn't know where they were going so I kept the conspiracy up til we arrived. The lads ran after geese, who ran back at them hissing like mad. They searched for eggs and got tons of treats. The emus looked at me in that vacant supercillious way they have. The lama patrolled his patch with the watchfulness of a presidential bodyguard. The sun shone briefly. People nodded to each other and smiled to themselves while they watched the childrens' delight in finding a little plastic egg... and eggs means T R E A T S !!

When the rain started it was just a sprinkle, not a downpour. We were ready to leave in any case, so we made our way home and I fed the lads before taking them home. By then the rain really was bucketing down, but we'd had a good day, they were happy, and my brownie credit points were at Anglo levels.

Arriving at one of the boy's houses, I missed the turn and had to reverse... BAD MOVE. Distracted by the fog from the hot little lungs that had been screaming in the back of the car, the drivers side of the car went off into a shallow ditch on the roadside. It wouldn't have been a problem except for the rain.

I was stuck in mud as slick as an estate agent. Now this should have been when my depression, which had lightened during the time with the boys, should have kicked back in. Normally, if something goes wrong with the car, I'll sit in the driver's seat and bang on the wheel in frustration. But somewhere during the manoevering myself out of the car and knee deep in cold mucky water, gathering stones to shove under the wheel with cold mucky fingers, I started to giggle.

I called my husband when it didn't work and I dug myself deeper. My daughter sent me a text saying "What's up, what's wrong, r u OK? /" I sent a message back - "I'm fine, car stuck in the mud and me covered in it!" with a picture attached of me complete with mudpack. The giggling got worse, and I thought it was hysteria, and tried to hold it in. But when I slipped and got my bottom thoroughly soaked as well, with the concerned Mom of Boy 1 looking on, I just started to laugh properly.
What else was there to do...!

D'you know, that belly-laugh did me the world of good. The depression lifted. I'd still love to engage in a little light torture, but I'd do it through ridicule rather than red-hot pokers - and that's progress in my eyes.