The Communication Generation

A true story of a capable and cheerful woman's slow and sometimes hilarious ascent all the way back from a real, fully fledged, all singing and all dancing breakdown that she really did not see coming her way, not in a month of Sundays.

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The day dawned softly on that first morning, as lost in a reverie she gazed into the middle distance. Pulling her treasured late mother's frayed lilac woollen cardigan around her pyjama-clad body she shivered a little. Then with a deep sigh she began to collect her scattered thoughts. Then with a start she remembered that they had moved the previous day into a duplex in a very smart part of another town. Realising that she had been sitting on her antique French chair for some time she wriggled a little to make herself more comfortable. All around the room were boxes of much treasured possessions that had been deemed too important to go into storage. Her awareness of the vision that stretched out languorously before her was only just beginning to pierce her scattered consciousness. These were glorious white houses, revealing lush green gardens and most particularly the shades of exquisite purple and lavender that only ancient, gnarled rhododendrons can produce. Everything she could see aligned perfectly and produced a feeling of calm and tranquillity within her soul.
Leaning over to open the curtains on either side of the bay window the purple verdant dream stretched out on both sides as far as her sleepy eyes could see. The anxious, pale blue butterfly that had been her constant companion for some considerable time picked up her skirts and floated for a moment on the breeze wafting through the sash window. Then glancing ruefully over her shoulder the butterfly flew serenely out of her solar plexus forever, as last night they had really talked for the first time in a long time. At that moment she knew I was going to be happy here, wherever here turned out to be, because she realised with a juddering silent breathe that she had finally finished all the frantic slipping and sliding that the previous year had signified. Her Sisyphean task was finally over and had landed her with barely a bump in her own luxurious purple patch.