Quantum of Solace and other such spells...

I suppose I knew it wasn't going to be a great week when I decided to start my detox regime only to find that Walkers crisps were on offer (£1.99 for eighteen packets....) at my local supermarket. Given my penchant to "bag a bargain", they managed to find their way into my basket and, admittedly with some coaxing, into my kitchen cupboard (an eighteen-packet bag takes some manipulation, let me tell you)

When all is said and done they don't need to be eaten straight away, do they? And all other such ridiculously futile reasons and excuses like that.

Half-term week with my boy, and an hour into Monday morning and he is announcing he is bored, he wants to know what the Red Arrows are doing and if Girls Aloud love him (I should mention that the Red Arrows are based and practice locally....it's a chore but they have to do it somewhere).

Of course Girls Aloud love him, I announce. They phone me frequently to tell me.

I wonder how it must feel to have "blimey! which one of them do I marry?" as the biggest concern in life. Then I remember how I have sprinkled many notions into his little mind; that the Red Arrows turned out on the day he started school just for him, that Shrek lives in Market Rasen and that there are no ghosts around here (secretly, I'm hoping the last one is true).

As a relatively upbeat kind of girl I've never coped well with the darker moments in life. Nothing too drastic, just those "straw that broke the camels' back" moments blended with the right monthly hormonal levels and- bingo! I can self-deprecate with the best of them. Everything that was positive is now of no significance, because my life is such a load of it that it doesn't matter.

And it's better to let me rant when I'm like that because when this particular Duracell bunny gets going, she will screech that you know nothing if you dare to stop her in her tracks. That's if she can hear you amidst the beating of chest and wailing that ensues.

And this, my friends, is roughly approaching the state I found myself in yesterday afternoon.

Thankfully I had some sense gently prized into me by one who, despite knowing me a relatively short time, has mastered the art of switching my mood control from dim to lighter, and then to sparkling. His style is not to pander to my bottom-lip to any great extent; too much of that and I turn into Shirley Temple without the attitude.

So, today dawns and, though still wobbly, I feel brighter and closer to normal. I can hold my head above water to at least get a lung full of air which is a marked improvement on where I was twenty-four hours ago.

During a slight submersion this afternoon, there is a knock at my door. It is my very considerate and pleasant neighbour who has taken in a parcel from Amazon for me. I thank him and laugh as he remarks that I must read a lot; this, you understand, is not the first time he has done this favour for me. Then I recall that the last time the box was actually open (not, I am sure, the work of said neighbour) and that it contained books on tarot cards and the study thereof. This time the parcel was sealed firmly shut. It did not contain books about tarot but they were not of a nature that you would necessarily want to share with anyone that you were likely to bump into in Tescos.

I closed the door and sat down again at my desk. Pleasant neighbur walks back to his house; I wonder if he has any inkling of the various topics of my reading matter, tarot-related or otherwise. Suddenly I imagine my reputation on "The Close" may be developing as the raven haired, wild and wanton divorcee at number one.... Someone who casts spells to entice and hypnotise. A woman who is devoid of all inhibitions, who has bid farewell to conforming in order to re-engage with her inner sensual being....

Someone a bit like Kate Bush, but with more melody and sultry smiles.

Eyes open, and I'm back.

Escapism in the right dose is better than anything the doctor could prescribe.

My quantum of solace. And I didn't even need Daniel Craig to apply it.