Mind over matter

There are times when I am convinced that, not only does my body takes second place to my mind, but it resents the unequal partnership.

My brain gets daydreaming and Higher Things: my body gets lumbered with the routine, low grade, day to day stuff, with just a small part of the brain stem nagging it on: "Keep the lungs going. And how many times do I have to tell you - you can't do the lungs and just forget about the heart. And look - that liver's got a lot on its plate. Keep that bile production up. And, no, you can't be excused intestine duty."

Then it's doors to manual once something exciting starts to happen and the bigger, grander brain bits step in to take control.

"Sharp corner! Brake! Brake! No - we need full consciousness here, thanks very much."
or
"Foreplay ahead. I'll take over here, thanks very much. Just remember, the way to a woman's satisfaction is via the brain. No, you can't start without me."

But, for the most part, I feel as if most of my brain is spending its entire time on autopilot, using what we're told is an almost infinite capacity for thought, conjecture and originality to ponder such deep, earth-shattering issues as:

Did that shirt really look better in pink?

If I go to the post office now, will I have time to do the shopping as well?

Where did I put the name tapes?

It all works pretty well until you hand over too much control and your body takes full advantage.

Which is why I spend days trailing myself, like an inadequate detective, wondering what my body has been up to while my brain was otherwise occupied. It can strike at any time. I start thinking about Leo, for example, and my body promptly sets off to mystery locations at a great rate. What makes it worse is its lack of judgement when it comes to quality destinations.

Finding myself in Paris wouldn't be so bad, but it never is Paris. My body is much keener on treks to front door or the boot of the car. The airing cupboard is another favourite choice, giving me the opportunity to survey the immersion heater in minute detail while wondering a) how I got there b) what I'm doing there and c) how much longer it's going to take to find out, until my synapses return from lunch break and start the afternoon shift.

Agatha Christie's detective Hercule Poirot made much of his little grey brain cells. I bet he didn't have to count them all out and back again before he was able to put them to use.