'An Everyday Circus Act' by Stephanie Percival

I’m so tired; I mistakenly follow a spider into its web, my vision blurred, stumbling onto the sticky thread; grabbing blindly for the broom which steadies my balance, before I know it I’m tightrope walking and find if I concentrate can snatch up things, muddy football boots, soiled nappies, discarded  laundry; pots and pans that gleam and glint as they tower upon each hand; if something drops I use a thread as a trapeze and swing down collecting it from the floor, swiping the pill bottle from the side, swallowing a mother’s-little-helper and then I continue, preparing meals, chopping onions with a sharp knife, making me cry hot tears but it’s only onions and if I focus, nothing else creeps in, and I wipe snot and tears from my face and it doesn’t matter I haven’t put make up on because then there’s nothing to smear so I can carry on juggling carrots and potatoes faster and faster, spinning plates so they hiss as they rotate, wobble slightly as they slow then pick up speed with one deft flick of my wrist, and behind their whizzing and spitting fat in the pan, applause reverberates like distant thunder, it's my family and friends watching, amazed at my dexterity, their clapping thumps around me, making everything tremble, including the web, so my hands become clammy because I know it will all topple; threads beneath my feet sag, and nausea washes from my stomach, thinking I’ve maybe left something on the cooker or the baby in the supermarket and I lift the knapsack weighted on my back and the shopping bags with stretching almost breaking handles, scrabbling through them in desperation for another pill, with one foot off the thread, daggling precariously, and finally falling… unable to save myself.