Inexplicable Fear.

A couple of weeks ago in a fit of misplaced enthusiasm I agreed to rent a table at a local Brocante. It’s being organised by a French friend of mine, and since I haven’t got very many of those I thought that the least I could do was support her, whatever it’s for. I forgot to ask.

And since I now have over thirty Hortensia cuttings, mainly due to the fact that I am incapable of throwing away any viable prunings, I thought that this would be an ideal opportunity to get rid of them and make a couple of bob. Easy Peasy.
I think they are all Red, or variations of, according to the soil. I’ve only got two Blue ones, and I wasn’t quite so obsessed when I last pruned those.

Plus, I have some odd and useless bits and pieces. I’m a hoarder as well. So I might change my mind about some of those.

And then the inevitable happened, as I began to think of multiple reasons for why I won’t be able to go.

Flu? Nope, I’ve done that twice recently, and there is a limit to how many times one can have Flu in the space of six months.
A Bad Knee? Dodgy. Someone might check on me.
Migraine? Not a good idea unless I don’t mind everyone thinking I’ve got a hangover, again.
Food Poisoning? Ditto for Migraine.

But why is she doing this, you are all asking yourselves?

Fear, plain and simple. Fear of standing there on my own. Fear of making a fool of myself. Fear of looking like a prat. Fear of not actually selling anything, and looking like a prat.

Quite ridiculous at my age. But there you go.