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And so begins another week where this time I’m crossing my fingers that it is significantly less emotional than the last. Good God. The last week of my life has given me an insight into what it must be like to be pregnant, menopausal or one of those highly and publicly emotional people the tabloids like to feast on.

Monday began with both G and I leaving the Cartoon Palace for another day at our respective offices – mine aka The Big Top. We sailed out the door ready to face the day and with the click of the latch turned instead to face each other as we simultaneously realised in the first instant we’d each forgotten our own keys. In the second we realised that so had the other. The last time I forgot my keys I was…oh, hang on. I’ve never forgotten my keys.

Tuesday now and I was instructed by my boss, aka the Circus Master, to accompany him to the pub after work. On a school night. Having had no tea. It’s obviously going to turn to chaos…At least I had my keys.

Unfortunately chaos was still reigning as half-way through Wednesday I realised that  I had lost my extremely rare Monte-Blanc pen which is not only out of production, but was a Significant Life-Moment gift 5 years ago. This is where the week really took a nose-dive. This was also the point where I began to seriously question my love of all things inanimate.

I steered myself through the day certain it’d turn up. The conviction that my pen was in reality at the bottom of my over-filled bag hidden under old pay-slips and tubes of lip balm kept me going and I pushed the alternative to the back of my mind. After all, I never lose things. (I never forget things either, but Monday’s events were two days previously therefore easy to ignore.)

Wednesday night when I arrived home G was already there. I stood in the middle of the living room and vomited out what had happened with the simple phrase “I think I’ve lost my pen.” I then immediately bust into tears. WTF?! I hadn’t even checked my bag yet.

So bags were checked, all manner of previously lost things were found but alas the pen did not reveal itself. Another breakdown was had, this time longer and far more intense, and the evening was spent crying and frantically trawling the internet for a replica (the only one I found was in Rhode Island).

Finally, on Thursday afternoon a work colleague turned to me and asked me if I wanted to use his pen – my pen, which he had found in one of the rooms at the Big Top. Which immediately saw me break down again, this time with relief, as I cried and snivelled my way through a million Thank Yous in front of everyone in the office. Embarrass much?

With hindsight I am completely mortified at my ability not only to burst into tears at the slightest thing, but also that an inanimate object can instill such emotional attachment. However, rather than spend time forcing myself to grow a pair, I’m going to put it down to Wedding Stress. It’s a highly emotional time and obviously once it’s over I’ll be back to the hard-hearted harlot I once was. I’m certain of it. The true test will come when I lose my pen again. Which means I’ll never know.

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