My emotional levels hit a high and it all starts so innocently.
My 4 year old daughter is off sick from school. She decides to join me and amuse herself in my bedroom while I work at my writing desk. As I look over to check what Emelia is doing, I notice that half of my model, foam brain is missing. I walk over to check whether the other half has fallen on the floor.
“Have you seen the other half of my brain?” I innocently enquire.
“No Mummy, I haven’t seen your brain.” My four year old looks up at me perplexed and starts to help me to look for my brain.
“It looks like this.” I show my daughter the other half of the grey, foam brain so that she knows what she’s looking for. She looks under the bed and around the room, but can’t find my brain. I can’t find my brain either and start to panic.
“Have you been playing with my brain? I need my brain for my workshop next week” I raise my voice as I start to get agitated and my emotions start rising, like a kettle full of water that is just about to boil. As my mind desperately scans for an answer, I think of the two puppies. Where are the puppies? They are remarkably quiet and nowhere to be seen.
By now my emotions are at boiling point, as I frantically search my room, behind the curtains, under the bedroom furniture, in the closed wardrobe and still no sign of the other half of my brain. I run out onto the open landing and shout down to my office assistant who is beavering away quietly at her desk.
“Have you seen my brain anywhere?”
She looks confused as she literally translates what brain means to her. She looks up at me as if to say, isn’t it in your head like any other normal human being.
“My brain, my brain, I’ve lost my brain.” I grimace and gesture with my hands questioningly to show my feelings of angst, dismay and sheer annoyance.
My office assistant quietly ponders as she politely figures out what on earth I'm going on about.
“I need my brain for my NLP programme next week.” I exclaim my hands up in the air in total disillusionment. She still has no clear understanding what I'm on about. I run into the bedroom and back out onto the landing again to show her the other half of the brain. "The other half looks exactly like this." I demonstrate vividly and hold my brain as though I've just lost a twin baby.
My office assistant's eyes perk up.Without saying a word, she assertively stands up, turns around and talks rapid Indonesian in her very quiet and calm tone to Wayan, my staff who maintains the villa. After an intense whispered conversation, my office assistant walks out of my view and I'm left peering over the wooden bannister, like Juliet looking for Romeo. My suspense is quickly cut short when she returns guiltily to show me a half chewed, half foam brain. Instinctively I run down the stairs and pick up my twin soggy, half chewed, discoloured brain. As I hold it, I look in silent dismay.There's no way this will fit neatly with the other half of the brain. There's no way I can artfully glue it back together again as the chewed bits must already be digesting and expanding in the puppies' tummies.
I start laughing. My office assistant and Wayan smile politely, not sure whether they should be relieved.
There's nothing I can do about my half eaten brain. Rather than think “some day I’ll be able to laugh about this” and fester for the rest of the day, I choose to see the funny side now. There are so many other possibilities I can use to explain the brain, including using only one half.
