Choices

The morning dragged as I half-heartedly ploughed through yet more worthless sales leads and had yet more pointless telephone conversations.

But I was no longer bothered by the whole exercise in futility. In fact, with my concentration the way it was, it was probably a blessing that I didn't have a hope in hell's chance of getting a sale.

When lunchtime limped around, and Steve asked if I wanted anything from the sandwich shop, I went with him - mostly to get a change of scene and see if I could get away from my thoughts.

Normally, I hate going to buy a sandwich. I know this is ridiculous, but it's the choice I find irritating: I'd prefer it if there was just a fridge full of sandwiches, where you could grab one and run. Of course, some places do that, but not the deli round the corner that Steve favours.

And so, I knew I'd have to choose the type of roll I wanted, and take it from there. Butter or mayo? Roast ham, smoked ham or parma ham? Salad? Onions or not? All to be decided at the head of the queue in a busy shop, as others waited to go through the whole routine themselves.

The choice in the chiller cabinet was overwhelming, too. Was my safe, plain "know what I like, like what I know" choice making me miss out on untried combination? The display seemed to mock my unwillingness to take a chance.

Please don't misunderstand; this isn't some kind of blind terror or phobia. I don't become a stammering wreck, slumping onto the counter. It's just a kind of low-level anxiety that removes any ounce of pleasure from the whole experience of buying my lunch.

That day I found it wasn't so bad. But that was more to do with the other choices I had on my mind.

The choices I had to make about what Kate had told me.



Story begins here.