2024 · Wales

The Shed

I am talking to a friend who hasn’t been able to do any of the high-level work. She is constantly online checking stuff. She can’t concentrate. Overwhelmed, emotional and anxious. Scattered, fragmented.

I tell her I find it almost impossible to focus on anything with the internet turned on. Why not unplug it for a bit and take a break? And lock it in a box for a bit, just to get some space from it.

She said that sounded wonderful. She could just unplug the router and put it in the shed. It’d be the best thing ever.

Right, she said. I’ll just do it now then.

I heard her walk over to the router and pull the plug out.

Ahh… I feel so much better already, she said.

A few seconds later, from somewhere in the house:

What the fuck has happened?

I’m just turning it off for a moment, sweetie. Just to get a bit of a break.

It’s her twenty-three-year-old daughter.

You can’t fucking do this to me. How could you? You can’t fucking do this. What the fuck are you doing? I’m right in the middle of watching something. Turn it on again. What the fuck. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to me?

Her voice sounds like someone was about to hack off her arms. That level of anguish. That level of panic.

She frothed and screeched and threatened and cried. Her show was playing. She needed to chat with her friend. It went on and on it went.

Eventually my friend said, I’m going to have to go, sorry. We hung up.

She turned it back on again.

Fair enough. It probably would have been better to warn her daughter first.

In addiction groups, there’s an expression. If you want to find out why you drink, stop drinking.