Drama everywhere

After waiting until 11.30pm, my thespian daughter returned home from her rehearsals safely. Not before everything but the the bogeyman had happened to her in my mind. Horrendous weather and night terror tales did nothing to stop me worrying. At what point do you stop becoming just concerned and become interfering? So she's nearly eighteen and extremely mature, but don't we all worry?
Today she is away for her driving lesson.. not being a driver myself because having failed my test twice I decided that it was safer for me to be a passenger than a driver, for other road users that is. With the very first words of my first driving instructor echoing in my head 'Have you ever driven before? followed by an explanation of how the gears worked. Like I understood, not being at all mechanical. He then went on to say 'This car is a Seat, and I want you to consider it a killing machine.' ??? and then I was expected to get on the road and drive....???
I wave Tabitha off with a smile and a prayer to busy myself with more mundane and safe things, like hanging out the washing. Mind you, I need bravery pills to go down my garden this time of year. I have spiders big enough for a Sunday roast, I swear. They take great delight in stringing their steel like webs to capture me as I venture through their playground.
I walk cautiously with a witches broom ahead of me, waving manically at the air, swinging in all directions, no wonder my neighbours don't speak to me. Satisfied there are no webs, I can trundle down with the washing, hang it out and be trotting back up to the house content at a job safely done.
Why then do I become distracted by a weed or just something I need to nip off, tidy up or remove. They sit there waiting you know, they are arachnoid psychoanalysts, they know I will do it. If they don't fool me by waiting in the corners of the rotary clothes line they get me as I potter in the borders. Face to face with something from James and the Giant Peach, only far less colourful and endearing.
I run the length of the garden and dive into the kitchen to make a deserving cup of tea to help me recover from the ordeal. Bliss, a quiet sit and read to recover. My head tickles, no sign of the cat behind me, reaching out his paw... I scratch my head. Still it tickles. Then it appears, swinging from my hair like Tarzan, it laughs you know, like a drain, as I perfom an acrobatic dancing act as no other artiste.. and my daughter thought she was the only drama queen in the family. Maybe I'll ask her to get the washing in... JM