Still on the subject of our brain, this weird place where we reside. Swimming around in its fatty liquid, we assume we’re alone, with it all to our-self, locked inside its massive biological labyrinth. But what if we’re not? What if there’s more than one of us? That could explain a lot of things, couldn’t it?
Do we really change our mind or do we just let the “other” have their own way? And when under pressure why do we say things like “Come on, you can do this!” – just who is this “you” that’s being spoken to? And how come we can have supreme confidence one minute and want to hide inside our shell the next?
Maybe our brains are home to numerous “others”. How else can it perform a brilliantly difficult task one minute and then fail abysmally at doing a simple one the next? From boffin to botcher in a millisecond. I reckon there must be a whole bunch of others inside. All of mixed ability. Randomly taking turns. I reckon the Beezer and its Numskulls was on to something . . .
Take Tuesday for example. We’re on our way to Folkestone. No longer newbies. Done this before. No excuses. We’ve not even travelled more than ten miles when Mary-Ann pipes up with “Oh, I know what we’ve forgotten”.(A cheese grater) A few more miles later she adds “Oh, we’ve forgotten the bread knife too”. A little later it’s my turn with a catastrophic “Oh fiddle.[can’t you just hear me saying this?] We’ve forgotten the (wine) bottle opener”. (very few screw tops over here) There will be more things we’ll discover that are still “chez nous”, but those are all neatly listed on a piece of paper called our check list. But whose job was it to check the check list I wonder?
Back to reality . . .
We’re doing what we vow never to do. Munching up the motorway miles in pursuit of Slovenia. It’s boringly mind numbing. We’re getting nowhere slowly, or so it seems. Hence some of the nonesense written so far. (obviously Blogsworth is on an extended break) Signal/internet from Telecom.de either non existent, or sporadic at best, adding to frustrations.
Saarburg and Camping Waldfrieden is our home for tonight. We’re pitched up a twenty minute scenic walk from its centre. By 3pm we’re plugged in, lunched and making our way down the wiggly route. A mammoth marauder crosses our path. As large as the average golf ball Mrs S narrowly misses turning him into a Shrove Tuesday offering . . .
Saarburg is a delight. A thirteenth century river diversion now contributing to its atttaction. Basking in the early evening sunshine, as we indulge ourselves in what will be the first of many local pastries, we foolishly allow ourselves to believe the second coming of the sun has arrived.
