Thursday September 4th 2025
Spoke to Doc Laurry about anxiety. Grabbed him after the committee meeting (abject disaster, as per—nobody would agree to stocking Doc’s biscuits, even though they all demolished the ones he brought for the meeting, because they’re too scared to cross Galoshes.
But at least nobody told me I didn’t deserve to be here this time.
Well, not out loud. A fair few of them were saying it with their eyes).
“So you know anxiety,” I said. “You know, anxiety disorder?”
“Do you want to call the medical center and book an appointment with me?” Doc Laurry said, not unpleasantly.
“No, no, I just want to ask…theoretically…about getting a diagnosis? Of anxiety? How do you get one of those? Do you need one?”
Doc reminds me a bit of Santa. If you crossed him with the Dalai Lama. He has a white beard and a patient, twinkly sort of smile.
“I like you, Charlie. I think you’re livening this place up, and goodness knows it needs that.
I wish we had somebody like you on the medical board—if you think the produce committee are a bunch of sticks-in-the-mud, you should meet my lot.
But I don’t give medical advice except during appointments, when I have sight of my patient’s medical notes and can make an informed judgment. ”
Obviously do not want to make an appointment. Said something hedgy about checking my availability. Doc removed his glasses and sighed.
“If a patient felt they had an anxiety disorder and wanted to discuss medication—”
“Not medication,” I said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I just hate pills.”
“Well, all right, if that was how the patient felt, then I would direct them toward some online resources, and discuss CBT, and talking therapy…”
“That’s it?” I said. “There’s no more stuff you’d do? To make it official?”
“Official for whom?” Doc asked, with a twinkly smile.
Didn’t really know what to say to that. But it felt like quite an important question. Why do I feel like I can’t have anxiety? Like I’m not allowed to? Like I want a doctor’s note that I can…what, wave at people who think I’m just making excuses?
Which people?
Galoshes pops into my head. And my mother. Jesus. Let’s not look at that parallel too closely.
“If we can let go of the judgment of others, Charlie, then we can know true freedom,” Doc said, and with that, and a pat on the arm, he ambled away.
“I’m so sorry,” came a breathy voice behind me, “but I heard all of that, and I feel like I need to fess up immediately or I will stew over this for days feeling awful.”
It was Rosie. She stepped out from behind Marly’s tractor, which was parked outside the farm shop where the committee meeting had taken place.
It was late enough that we could only see each other by the light of the shop—Jones was tidying up in there with Red.
Would usually have helped them, but since the insane rain kiss (all I am writing on this subject—it must be forgotten) I’m trying to cut down on my Jones time where possible.
“Before you say anything else,” Rosie said, “I just want to tell you…I’m such an anxious person.
Well, better than I used to be, but…” She ticked off on her fingers.
“I’m petrified of dentists. I can’t go in cars—I’ll never drive one.
And I get this abstract terror about the end of the world that kicks in whenever I’m stressed or tired, or sometimes just hungry, to be honest. I’ll say to Marly, but what if there’s another Covid and this time we don’t find a vaccine and we’re all wiped out, even us, even here on the island?
And she’s like, shall I toast you a bagel, sweetheart? ”
That made me laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds horrible, but—”
“Funny, right? Laughing at the anxiety is one of my top tricks.”
She looped her arm through mine and began walking me away from the shop, toward the track that would lead us to the Rue.
“May I show you another?” she asked.
Looked at her, with her erratic, frizzy curls and her warm smile, and thought to myself, did you really plot to get two Charlies at your farm shop?
Why would you do it? Fetish for Charlie Joneses?
Fondness for mischief-making? The very idea seemed totally ridiculous now that I was with her.
But then, when I’m with Jones, it seems just as ridiculous to think he’s lying about getting the job offer, too. And we both ended up here somehow.
“I’d love that,” I said after a moment. “Thank you.”
When we reached the track, she didn’t turn toward the Rue—she led me to a stile into one of the Bramblebay fields left fallow this season, sown with wildflowers instead.
Even at that time it was abuzz with insects.
The footpath took a petal-strewn route through the center of the field, and there was a flattened patch of grass at the other side, the sort that might be created by a deer looking for somewhere cozy to sleep.
Rosie lay on the ground and looked up at the sky.
She patted the grass, so I lay down beside her.
Was struck afresh by how incredible it is to see the sky unpolluted by endless city traffic.
Thousands of those stars had been hidden from me before coming here, but they’d been shining up there all along.
“Do you know how big the universe is?” Rosie asked.
“Umm,” I said, “does anyone?”
“It’s infinite,” Rosie said dreamily. “It stretches out forever. And do you know how small you seem to the universe?”
“I’d guess…pretty small?”
“Yeah.” Rosie sighed. “Isn’t that nice? Feeling so insignificant?”
“I don’t generally like feeling insignificant,” I said cautiously.
“Really?” Rosie turned her head to look at me.
“You should. It’s lovely. Who cares about the dentist when there are countless stars?
I am but a speck in this great universe, and the dentist is a speck, too, and when I blink out of existence, will anyone care that I had to get a filling? No, they will not.”
“And you find this…helpful?”
“It helps me let go,” she said. “When the fear feels big”—she pointed up into the dark sky—“I remember what big actually is.” She smiled as she turned to look at me. “Does the committee make you anxious?”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. This felt surprisingly exposing to talk about. “Yeah. Galoshes especially.”
“I get that. But they’re just people, just like you, and they’re all a bit scared as well—they struggle with change. Remember we still don’t have streetlights here, let alone all the cool things you Charlies are introducing up at the shop.”
“It’s not like we’re putting in touchscreens for ordering,” I said, looking back up at the stars. “We’ve not removed a single item of local produce or cut anyone’s pay.”
Was shocked to feel myself close to tearing up. I just really want to do a good job here. I need to, to justify everything, and I want to, because I care about this place. Even more than I imagined I would.
“It’s OK, Charlie,” Rosie said softly. “You’re doing really well.
And you don’t have to make the shop brilliant overnight, OK?
It’s not all about the shop—we want you here, and we want you to feel welcome.
I promise you the committee will come around.
They’re giving you a hard time the way a class of teenagers would give a new teacher a hard time—it’s almost traditional.
If you can let it wash over you, it’ll pass. ”
It was odd, that comment. It’s not all about the shop. Because…it is all about the shop, isn’t it? What did she want me here for, if not to turn the shop around? Isn’t that why they hired me? Or rather, why they hired both of us?
Friday September 5th 2025
Keep meaning to write about the comanager meetings. We’ve had loads now, without arguing—or kissing.
Vibe is completely different at the stables since the lighthouse convo.
Jones and I are extremely polite to each other these days.
Almost too polite, actually. Yesterday he thanked me four times for putting enough water in the kettle for him to have tea, too.
But it’s good. Definitely better than trying to pretend the other person doesn’t exist. And we’ve divided management roles at the shop, we’re splitting shifts so we both have more time instead of getting on top of each other every day… It’s all working very well.
Things are a bit…heightened, though. Do my absolute best to avoid getting too near to him, but can only do so much when we’re literally living the same life.
He’s everywhere I am, by definition. At work, at home…
Like, he’ll come into the kitchen while I’m washing up, and it’s a very small kitchen, so when I turn he’s barely a step away, in a rumpled shirt that shows the freckles across his collarbones.
Gray eyes full of messages I can’t interpret, hair ruffled like I’ve had my fingers through it.
And if our hands touch, or our arms brush…
it never feels like nothing, the way it should.
It feels like a shortcut back to that night.
Rain, laughter, a momentary loss of sanity.
You’d think all the exposure would help, but I’m more jittery with him than ever.
Funny, really, as he’s actually a very calm person, very measured and deliberate in everything he does.
The assured type—the sort of man who would look you right in the eyes in bed, one steady hand on your jaw, then touch you just where you wanted him to, staying totally composed while you begged and whined and writhed.