Squief: an internet self-help manual

I want to thank you all for the true concern and loveliness you offered upon hearing the news that I was not only homesick, but that my homesick was playing out through the grief when faced with the sudden loss of sugar-free watered-down fruit-flavoured drinks.

Thank you, friends, for your sympathy, and your solidarity.

In addiction, many of you have sought to provide help by seeking to hook my up with purveyors of over-priced expat goods, and while this may be a useful tack for homesickness avoidance in times of dire need (I got sore-tempted by a wedge of pure imported Cotswold – double gloucester with chives and herbs – this evening at Wholefoods, I wont deny it. But for reasons of cost, lard, and saving things till a special occasion, I forewent it. Cheer me. And please stop me from saying things like forewent before I skewer myself on one of Dinkens rolling bones) hang on, Ive lost track of this sentence due to overuse of commas, brackets, wine and clauses (as usual), let me read back ah, yes I should not succumb.

Therefore I wanted to reassure you that everything is fine, and while my first homesiccup might have played out through a cordial medium, I am now dealing with it as one properly should: with weight, deference, and due reference to proper psychology.

Thats right, I am choosing to properly work through my Seven Stages of Grief or the grief cycle, as developed by a Swiss Dr called Kübler-Ross, who, lets face it, probably wasnt talking about squash at the time because she was talking about the terminally ill rather than soft drinks. Otherwise she would have called it the Seven Stages of Squief. Ot the Squief Cycle. Damn, but thats a much better name .]

The Seven Stages of Squief
How I lost the squash; I felt the loss; I moved through it.

1. The Shock stage: Initial paralysis at hearing the bad news.
No. What? Theres no squash down that aisle either? What do you mean? Well where is it? Look again. No, Ill just wait here.

2. The Denial stage: Trying to avoid the inevitable.
Well they must have it at another shop then. Its not like NO ONEs going to stock squash, is it? A ha ha ha ha ha. Of course not!

3. Anger stage: Frustrated outpouring of bottled-up emotion.
No one?! They just dont have it at ALL in this country? How can any country exist without. I mean, many many families that make up this great country have originally come from the same place as us, surely they thought to bring squash and try to, you know, instil it? But no. No fucking squash. None at all.

4. Bargaining stage: Seeking in vain for a way out.
Well well order some on the internet from one of those expat places. HOW much? Dont be ridiculous. There has to be some other way .

5. Depression stage: Final realization of the inevitable.
there isnt? Oh. Oh bollocks.

6. Testing stage: Seeking realistic solutions.
Do we have any wine in the fridge? Oh, well, just some water then, I suppose

7. Acceptance stage: Finally finding the way forward.
Oh are you? Yes, we need some more milk Both kinds, yes And can you get another watery filtery thing? And some frozen concentrated juice cans? Oh, and some wine. Obviously. Lovely, thank you

So you see?
There IS life after squash and yes, its been a sudden loss, and a tragic one, in many ways. But were working our way through it.

So thank you so much for your support. As we all know, its often not until we lose a loved one that we realise how much we loved them. So thanks for helping work through it Im around stage six or seven now. One day, I might even move on to a new loved one.

But trust me, it wont be Kool Aid.
Or from anywhere that spells shop, shoppe.
Its just a matter of grammiciple.