A smooth, effortless upward progression. Like the groovy huge new one running silently up a wall inside the National Portrait Gallery. Conveying shiny happy people up to some invisible and unimaginable shiny happy land (called, apparently, the Tudor Gallery).
Or, even more appositely, like the one in the Natural History Museum Earth Galleries that takes one, an onlooker, through the story of the planet and its place in the universe and through the centre of the earth itself.
But, er, life just aint like an escalator.
And I’m fucking tired and fed up. Because at the moment it does not resemble an escalator in any respect what so ever. It is very closely akin to having to drag myself and the children and the animals up the side of Great Pyramid of Giza. Every single fucking day. After day. After day. After day.
The steps are too big for me to clamber comfortably. So imagine what it’s like for the children. I have physically to pull them up. And their stuff. And make sure the dog doesn’t run off. And the cat is keeping up.
And there is nobody to help. There is nobody to hold the children’s hands or carry a bag or call the dog. There is nobody to help with them, and there is nobody to help with me. Nobody to say well done or never mind. And I can’t generate the required levels of internal resources all by myself all the time.
So now I’m going back to bed.
I am not depressed. I’m just fucking exhausted.