Coming out of my shell

It’s been a funny old week. I mean that in both senses of the word. Those long, uninterrupted days of early lock down, where I could stay in bed if I liked, writing and supping tea, or amble about watering things and working out plot lines in my head are drawing to a close. We’re in the next stage. I’ve got two new clients which is brilliant. One in particular has handed me the dream job. I get to talk to lovely people, revel in gorgeous photos of their homes, then distil my notes into mellifluous prose. Some of my old clients are coming back (welcome!) People are starting to book parties again, so both halves of my old life are revving up.

I liked having time. It’s not something I had much of before the pandemic. I was always driving somewhere, ticking something off a massive to-do list, worrying about something. A bit like Road Runner. Whereas since March, I’ve been more like a tortoise, ambling about, letting the sunshine heat me up and revitalise me and spending time in my shell. Turns out it’s quite a good place to be from time to time. I can think in there.

My mum was ninety on Sunday. In spite of her protestations that it was just another day, my sister and I organised our first meal out for months, appropriately socially distanced and threw an open house in the front garden of my parents’ bungalow. Watching everyone drinking tea, eating cake, chatting and laughing did my heart good. The sun shone too, which is always helpful with outside events. Halfway through proceedings, my niece reminded me that we’d left a very important family member out. She walked down the back garden to release her from her pen and returned clutching her to her chest.

When my sister was ten, she succeeded where I had always failed in obtaining a real, live pet. This was a fine-looking tortoise, probably aged about twenty, who we called Timbo (after a male DJ on Essex Radio, since you ask). Many years later, we found out he was a she. Hey ho.

Timbo loves company. Like all tortoises, she’s got very poor eyesight but excellent hearing and a great sense of smell. “Is it alive?” asked an elderly guest, recoiling. Once everyone had realised that there was a friendly reptile in their midst, the party continued, Timbo being fed cucumber, lettuce, strawberries and raw pepper by her adoring fans. At one point, she relieved herself lavishly, alarmingly close to the birthday girl’s sandals, but a discreet flick into the hedge took care of that.

Once everyone had gone home, we tidied up and then sank into comfy chairs in the front room. I haven’t seen my sister and her family since February so there was a lot of catching up to do. Somehow, we got on to the subject of their friend Karen who has inherited her mother’s house rabbit. She has also taken in another creature, known by one and all as Gary the Psycho Tortoise.

When my brother in law mentioned Gary, I fell about laughing. Gary. I mean, Gary! Who calls a tortoise Gary? Once I’d calmed down a bit, I asked for more details. It seems that Gary is a troubled soul. Violent and obstinate, he headbutts his way out of his accommodation each morning, ignoring the door and necessitating the application of much gaffer tape. In addition, his libido knows no bounds. Visitors to Karen and Pete’s are often startled when Gary approaches at top speed and begins to – ahem – get to know their foot a little better. The moment of truth, it seems, is close by when Gary’s eyes cross.

Karen and Pete are extremely kindly and compassionate folk. They are trying to make Gary a better person/tortoise and find his softer side. Sadly, he doesn’t appear to have one. He is frequently put in the naughty corner and has even been seeing an animal behavioural psychologist. This news reduced me to helpless tears of laughter. I haven’t laughed that much since I don’t know when. So many questions. How does the psychologist communicate with Gary? Are his problems rooted in nature or nurture? Does he get given homework? Is it a talking cure? (probably not). And most of all, how can Gary be brought out of his shell?

I am nothing like Gary. That said, I have been seeing a counsellor for some time, but we speak the same language and he’s never put me in the naughty corner. I may be a bit more like Timbo, affectionate, fond of company and occasionally short-sighted when it comes to painful realisations.

I’ve been the life and soul of the party for so long (approximately since the age of nineteen, when I began to suspect that fun-loving, jolly people had a better time of it than introspective, depressed types) that I’d forgotten, if I ever knew, that retreating into a quiet place to reflect is a Very Good Thing. Lock down provided me with that opportunity and it’s done me no end of good. I’ve started to poke my head out a bit now and feel the sun on my back. I don’t know what the rest of this year holds, but I am looking forward to finding out.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and speaker. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes poetry as the mood takes her, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.