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The woman who worries herself to death By Kathryn Simmonds She wasn't robbed or raped or made a scapegoat of, she didn't take ill-fated flights on shaky planes and
no one splashed her house in paint, Kids with hoods and sovereign rings and hates left her alone. That twinge
she sometimes felt was just a twinge. Her fillings didn't leak. At office dos she danced and no one laughed.
Her children didn't have disorders, fail exams, take smack. Her husband didn't love his secretary
or get the sack. But, if you saw her fidgeting towards the dawn, her breathing playing tricks,
a thousand what ifs snaking in a queue, you'd feel for her, you'd wish she had something to pin her torment to.
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