M calls me casually, at 3:02pm.
“Any news?”
“Nooo. Haven’t heard anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
A pause.
“She said if there were any dramas that she would call before 3pm…and I suppose you knew that because you just called me a two minutes past three?”
“Well…um, yeah.”
“Well I haven’t heard anything and I feel weird about not having heard anything, even though I should be standing on my desk and screaming ONLY SEVENTEEN MORE WORKING DAYS IN THIS SOUL DESTROYING TERTIARY CONCRETE BOX but instead I’m sitting here. Blogging. Making typing mistakes as my eyes have their own tennis match between the clock and the phone.”
(I didn’t actually say that last bit verbatim, but I communicated it as well as I could in an office where the only sound was my voice, the clicking of two other people’s mice and the f!@#ing air vent.)

It’s 3:35pm and it seems to me that I probably have my house all settled up and accounted for. But really, the truth is that I need someone to smack me over the head and call me from Hervey Bay (interesting logistics) and scream “It’s ALRIGHT!! Everything is SORTED!! You don’t have to worry about ANYTHING except moving about a thousand miles away, taking out a personal loan to repay your father and making both cats fit in the same box without losing an arm!! CONGRATULATIONS!!!”
Can you tell I’m beginning to panic?