A rant.

One starts the day with a plan…or an idea, at least, of what needs doing. The job hunt, the errands, the exercise, the endless unpacking: One finds comfort in the routines, in the knowing that progress will be made. That one might squeeze out a few calm, blessed hours at the page is a wonder and a gift.

I’ve had much too much uncertainty in my life, lately; much too much turmoil. My coping skills have diminished drastically in recent memory. Perhaps I never had them at all.

Today’s path was clear. And then the phonecall. After more than two weeks of unanswered calls, after three months’ notice of my intention to leave, after slaving to leave the place spotless at my departure, I am told that I will not be getting my deposit back. There goes my day.

Now I’ll be phoning lawyers. Planning a visit to small claims court. Disrupting my life yet again when I want nothing more to get on with it. This is hair-tearing-out territory. It plays havoc with my head, and my writing. I want it over. I want my deposit back. I want to be easygoing again. I want to laugh.

And I want my life back, too.