A story about routines
Tidy and the Day the Plan Went Wrong
Tidy's day runs in the same order every day, and today it does not. A story about routines, and what to do when the order breaks.
3 minutes to read aloud Β· π Calm
Tidy's day goes in an order.
Get up. Curtains. Breakfast, which is toast. Shoes by the door, left one first. Walk to the gate at the same time, past the postbox, three left turns.
The order is not fussiness. The order is how Tidy knows what is coming, and knowing what is coming is how Tidy stays calm enough to be the fluff who makes plans everybody else can follow.
On Monday, there was no bread.
Tidy stood in front of the cupboard for a long moment. Then the road past the postbox was dug up, with a fence across it and a sign.
Tidy's chest went tight and fast. Not a small wobble: a proper one, the sort where the ears ring.
"It's only a different road," said somebody, kindly, which is the single least helpful sentence in the world.
Tipsy came and stood beside Tidy at the fence.
"Two things gone wrong before nine o'clock," said Tipsy. "That's a lot for you."
Tidy nodded. Tidy could not have managed words.
"Breathe in and fill up your tummy. And out, slowly."
They did it three times, at the fence, in front of everybody, and Tidy did not care who saw because the ringing in the ears had started to go down.
"Right," said Tipsy. "New plan. Not no plan. New plan."
And that turned out to be the whole thing Tidy had been missing.
Tidy got out the pencil and drew it, quickly, on the back of an envelope. Little pictures, in order. Round by the shop. Past the red gate. Down the lane. Arrive slightly late, which is allowed.
The moment the pictures existed, Tidy could breathe properly again. It was not the toast, and it was not the road. It was not knowing what was coming.
Tidy was four minutes late and perfectly alright.
Now there is a second card in Tidy's pocket, drawn in pencil, with three little pictures on it.
Breathe. Draw a new plan. First this, then that.
It works for absolutely everything.
