Human Buckaroo

Most days, I feel like a human buckaroo. You remember the game. That twitchy, nerve-fraying donkey with its hollow plastic stare, waiting — daring you — to add just one more piece. A saddle. A shovel. A stupid little frying pan. Each one hooked on with the trembling precision of someone defusing a bomb, breath held tight — until… SNAP. It all goes flying. I am that donkey. There’s too much hanging off me, and not nearly enough stamina to hold it all. And in this dream — God, in this dream — it’s worse. The weekend is bursting at the seams. A to-do list that doesn’t just exist — it sprawls. An endless scroll growing longer the more I look at it, feeding off my anxiety. Tasks breeding tasks. Obligations multiplying in the dark. And me? I’m stood in the middle of it all, scratching my head, wondering how the hell I’m not going to — buck, buck, buckaroo. “I’ve got time,” I mutter, pretending to have it all under control. Truth is, I don’t. A tiny metal rake clinks onto my back. The first piece. We’ve started. First stop — Ash. My best friend since the first year of secondary school. We don’t see each other often anymore, but when we do, it feels like something important is being maintained — showing up is part of an unspoken contract neither of us dares to break. She talks — a lot. Incessantly, unapologetically, with the stamina of someone who has never once run out of thoughts. But I always show up. I always listen. Because I know it lightens her load, even if it quietly adds to mine. “Amanda!” She appears mid-sentence, as if she’s been talking long before I arrived and will continue long after I leave. “… and then she said to me—no, wait, you’ll love this—she actually said—” “Costa?” I cut in gently. “Costa,” she confirms, already steering us in that direction. We sit with lukewarm lattes while Ash delivers a full, uninterrupted monologue on everything and nothing — Facebook stalking antics, her husband's inadequacies, a forensic breakdown of a woman neither of us like. I nod in all the right places, offering the occasional “no way” and “you’re joking,” while my brain flickers elsewhere — quietly scanning the ever-growing list ticking away behind my eyes. “Shall we have a mooch?” she says eventually, as if we haven’t just completed a full social marathon sitting down. “Would be rude not to,” I reply, already half-standing. The shopping bags start to accumulate almost immediately. Heavy ones. The kind with thin handles that slice into your fingers like they’re trying to teach you a lesson. Each one feels unnecessary and essential at the same time. Another piece settles onto my back. This one’s a saddle — solid, weighty, deceptively manageable. “You’re not listening,” Ash says suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “I am,” I lie smoothly. “I gasped internally.” She considers this. “Fair,” she says, and carries on. Next — Uncle John. The Alzheimer’s hasn’t taken him all at once. It’s been slower than that. More insidious. A gradual unravelling, thread by thread, until whole parts of him have simply… gone missing. Some days I have to walk the streets looking for him, scanning corners, checking familiar routes, trying to keep the panic from bubbling over. He likes to wander. Always has. Now he just forgets how to come back. But today — by some small miracle — he’s home. Standing at the window. Waving like he’s been expecting me. Relief lands in my chest before I’ve even opened the door. “Oh good,” I say as I step inside. “Found you without needing a search party today.” “What day is it?” he asks, blinking at me like I’ve just arrived from another planet. “Breakfast day,” I tell him lightly. “My favourite.” He smiles, and for a moment it almost feels normal. I make his breakfast slowly, carefully. Cereal warmed so it’s easier to manage. Tea cooled just enough. His medication is lined up beside him, and I watch — properly watch — as he takes it. Because sometimes he forgets halfway through, and I’ve learned not to assume anything completes itself anymore. I check him over without making it obvious. Clothes. Hands. Face. Three pairs of trousers. “Layering,” I say. “Very fashion-forward.” He laughs, though I’m not sure he knows why. Something loops gently around my ears. A lasso. It tugs slightly. Not painful. Just… there. A reminder that I’m tethered to all of this whether I like it or not. Then it’s the weekly food shop. Or, more accurately — a fluorescent hell with a budget attached. Mat is already here, gripping the trolley like he knows how much this is going to hurt. Food shopping with my penny-pinching husband is never an enjoyable experience. “The budget, Amanda,” he says, without looking at me. “I’ve literally just arrived.” “You’re thinking about it.” Rude. And, annoyingly, accurate. I drift towards the cheese aisle like it’s calling me home. Mini cheeses. My thing. My tiny, circular joy in a wax jacket. Into the trolley they go without discussion. Non-negotiable. Then — A candle. Lavender. Harmless. Aspirational. The kind of object that suggests a version of me who has time to relax, to light things intentionally instead of accidentally setting them on fire. I try to slip it into the trolley, hidden beneath a pile of Nectar deals. Mat catches me instantly. Of course he does. “The. Budget.” “It’s one candle.” “You burned a bookcase.” “It was a momentary lapse.” “It required the fire brigade.” “They were very nice about it.” “They singed my first edition Harry Potters.” “They were not our ticket out of skinthood.” “They could have been.” “No one even likes Harry Potter anymore.” He stares at me like I’ve personally ended literature. The candle goes back. The mini cheeses, however, remain exactly where they are. I’m not a complete martyr. Another piece hooks on. A bucket this time — heavy, awkward, dragging at my balance. “I’ve packed the swimming bag,” Mat announces the second we’re through the door. Of course he has. I haven’t even put the mini cheeses away. “Shall we do 30 lengths?” I offer, already tired. “Mandy…” he says, patting his stomach. “Fifty.” Thirty I can fake. Thirty is manageable if I dissociate slightly. Fifty feels like wading through treacle. By length twenty, I’m bargaining. By thirty, I’m resentful. By forty, I’m cursing every water-based decision i’ve ever made. By fifty, I emerge from the pool like something that’s seen too much and will never be the same again. A cowboy hat settles onto my head. Patience, apparently. Though it feels less like a reward and more like a test I didn’t realise I was taking. “We’ve got that wedding,” Mat says, casually. I freeze mid-towel-dry. “That what?” “Rodrigo and Carlos.” “I don’t know a Rodrigo or a Carlos.” “Well, apparently we do. Twenty minutes.” Twenty minutes. My chest tightens — not with excitement, but with that familiar flicker of social dread. Weddings mean people. Small talk. Holding eye contact just a fraction longer than feels natural. Conversations that skim the surface but somehow still feel exposing. “Who invited us again?” He shrugs. Brilliant. The wardrobe becomes a crime scene. Clothes everywhere. Nothing fits. Nothing feels right. Nothing remotely wedding-worthy. Everything whispers you’ve let yourself go in different tones. “Amanda…” Mum. Just — there. As if she’s always been standing in the exact spot I need. “All this rushing… it isn’t good for your health.” “I need that space,” I say, trying to edge past her. “You’ll stress yourself into an early grave.” “Can I do that in something flattering?” “Do you even know these grooms?” ”…no.” She nods, as if that confirms everything, and then she’s gone. Just — gone. I manage to scrape something together. It’s… technically an outfit. But it’s screaming “five seconds to dress, don’t judge me.” The drive is borderline life-threatening. Mat’s road rage has developed a theatrical flair. There’s shouting, gesturing, full-body involvement. “INDICATORS EXIST FOR A REASON!” he bellows at a car in front. Then he does the thing. The narrowed eyes. The intense stare. The “I’m watching you” fingers. Full Robert De Niro in Meet the Parents. It would be terrifying if it wasn’t so ridiculous. We arrive late. Of course we do. The ceremony’s over. Speeches done. First dance missed. There’s a strange mix of relief and discomfort in that. Less pressure — but also nowhere to hide. The room is alive with people who seem to belong here. Laughing easily. Existing without effort. I hover at the edges, smiling when required, nodding at things I haven’t fully heard. An Aperol Spritz appears in my hand. A lifeline. I take a sip — “Oh—we’d better head back,” Mat says. I stare at him. “Are you serious?” “We’ve got to collect Pickle.” Ah yes. Pickle. The kitten. Another responsibility. Another small, but adorable, wriggling addition to the pile. I down the drink in one go. Waste not, want not. We leave without so much as a backward glance. A stick of dynamite wedges itself under my saddle. The drive to Oakhampton is worse. Mat has evolved from road rage into full performance art. More shouting. More commentary. More near misses that I choose not to react to because I simply don’t have the energy left. “YOU ABSOLUTE—“ he begins, unleashing something wildly creative. Followed by — The eyes. Always the eyes. We arrive. No one’s home. “Definitely the right house?” I ask. “Positive.” We call. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing. I stand there, staring at the empty house, feeling the weight of wasted time, wasted effort, wasted petrol (which, frankly, given the state of the world, we can’t afford to waste). A frying pan slams onto my back. Something inside me tilts. Not much. Just — enough. “Right,” I say quietly. “Home. Pyjamas. Sofa. Silence.” I can picture it perfectly. Slippers. Trash TV. Mini cheeses in hand. Nothing expected of me. No one needing anything. Bliss. Pure, uninterrupted bliss. Mat checks his watch. “Shit… I need to put my foot down.” My stomach drops before he even finishes the sentence. “Why?” “Mum’s hosting dinner. Ten minutes.” And there it is. The final piece. Placed with devastating precision. Dinner. At. My. Mother-in-law’s. Something in me goes very still. Then — SNAP. Violent. Immediate. Inevitable. Every piece — every bag, every obligation, every expectation, every bloody frying pan — erupts into the air like shrapnel. “CAN’T I JUST HAVE A MOMENT TO MY FUCKING SELF?!” It rips out of me. Loud. Raw. Unfiltered. I didn’t plan to say it. I didn’t even know it was there until it was already out in the open. The final straw. One holster too many. The lantern finally blown out. Silence follows. Heavy. Almost sacred. For the first time all day — no one is asking anything of me. And then… nothing. No donkey. No weight. No pieces digging in. Just me. Standing there. Breathing. And it hits me. It’s not the tasks. It was never just the tasks. It’s the way I carry them. The way I collect them. Say yes to them. Take them on without question, without pause, without checking if there’s actually any space left. I’ve been placing the pieces on myself. Carefully. Willingly. Habitually. As if stopping would mean everything else falls apart instead. But the donkey was never meant to hold everything. That’s the whole point of the game. It always snaps. This time, though — I’m still standing when it does.