The reframing continues as I come to terms with this diagnosis. Social anxiety. There's a reason I have it. I don’t want to go out. I never want to go out. The diagnosis means I don't feel as bad about it.
But we must do what we must do. My clothes are changed and I dab on some make up, ready for the evening.
Besides, I don’t see these women very often. Christmas in July with the Dream Group. I don’t think we have been in the dream group for about 10 years, yet we still meet up twice a year.
Like swimming, and the gym, and many things, I tell myself that I will enjoy it when I get there and push on through.
But the trek down Chapel Street seemed long and arduous. The pub is only 5 km away, but when you’re stuck behind a tram, it feels like forever. To make things worse, it had started to rain.
Chapel Street has changed. It feels like it wants to be a high end, but it's just failing. Mixed in with the boutiques and market chain stores are vape shops. An outlet where you can buy American sweets. Chain fast food staples butt up against the odd Teppanyaki and açai bowl shopfronts. Once you cross Comnercial Road, a bit more class seems to seep in. Although the luxury brands are no longer there, there is a very good op shop and some interesting bars with interesting foods and concepts. It feels more real.
I make my way to the pub. I’m almost on time. Parking at the back of the hotel, I’m forced to walk through the pokey section to reach the front bar. It smells of farts, stale sweat and cigarette smoke and despair. A concentrated old man smell. The rest of the pub smells much fresh. We know this pub. The food is good. This is our six-monthly haunt.
And I did enjoy myself when I got there. There were six of us. It was lovely to see everybody and try to put the world to rights, even if half the time we talked about our cats.
Cats beat Trump every time.
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