Jane Austen was the sort of precocious teenager who nowadays, would have had her pigtails pulled. Back in the late 1700,s however, she was free to write Northanger Abbey.Young Miss Austen used her novel to basically poke fun at the shock-Gothic literature of her day - it is full of mocking parody, like the following example:
'Miss Morland's journey to Bath proceeded, amazingly without any incident; a 'compete absence of highwaymen, freak storms or accidents of the carriage'.
You get the idea. Sadly, the novel continues seeing nothing hilariously not happening right to the very end. Hmmm.
Anyway, the relevance of all this? Well, our lives here this last month have been like living Northanger Abbey. After a life full of ambulances, midnight escapes, seizures, hospitals - suddenly all is quiet. When we hear a crash upstairs and race, two steps at a time, breathless in anticipation of an epileptic Lucie, what do we find? The toilet lid has banged down, or Lucie has dropped a Tesco value-sized, bottle of shampoo:
'Oh hello, mum, dad - you okay?' Lucie asks, perplexed, as we crash into the bathroom, all breathless and fearful!
Or perhaps the school nurse rings, but with a 'complete absence' of ambulances, seizures and nasty falls. How so very odd, Miss Moreland!
But what we've noticed during these 'mysteriously uneventful happenings' is how Helen and I feel so bloody stressed! I seriously do wake in the morning to find myself trembling. We jump at the least little thing. Health wise, from being as fit as two fiddles, polished with only the best fiddle-wax, Helen and I now have colds and sore throats. We also feel tired, whereas during all the stress - we felt we could move mountains. How very darkly mysterious? How can this be?
Well - we reckon we must have an autism/epilepsy (and very mild) version of post-traumatic-stress-disorder. Not to diminish the 'real' condition of-course. But like the soldier who trembles and sees danger everywhere, we jump at each bump! We anticipate the dramatic when we should, of-course, expect the ordinary. In short we have become the excitable Miss Moreland, our heads full of fantastical danger and intrigue! But instead, we are finding toilet seats and school nurses who want to merely ask about inoculations!So, I guess this is good. But it would be nice to have another, say, ten years of not very much happening. Yes that would be lovely. If this is a novel we are in, let it be dull old Northanger Abbey, we've had quite enough of 'The Perfect Storm' or 'Towering Inferno' - thanks very much!
Thanks, as always, for reading - Mark.
