I have a Vicar who lives in my mind rent free.

Whenever I'm stressed with the weight of the world burrowing itself into my shoulders, I talk to Dawn French. Sadly, my life is far too small and far too bland to actually pick up the phone to her, but in a corner of my mind exists the maternal; big-bosomed Vicar who always listens to me and always tells me what I need to hear. 

The past week I've felt as if I've been made to stand on one of those fitness boards with an inflated ball in the middle by my old P.E teacher. I've just felt so wobbly. Adjusting to remote teaching, finding a new flat, sorting out damages that a tricky housemate caused to our precious carpet. All of it has wormed an unsettling stress into the pit of my stomach. So much so that on the weekend I felt compelled to eat an entire sleeve of Jaffa Cakes and five million squares of chocolate. A literal worm, I'm telling you.

Anyway, I find myself flapping about. Forcing myself on silly little walks and trying my best with some YouTube yoga. But to no avail. I can't shift this I'mflappingaroundikeaduck feeling, no matter how pure my intentions are. Instead, I give in. I imagine Dawn's toothy grin. The way her smile would move as she'd ask me how many sugars go in my tea. I never take sugar, though I'd find myself saying 'two please' to avoid letting her down and, eventually, I'd allow myself to tentatively sip.

Over the sugary tea, her words would work to unpick the tight rope that's wound itself around my stomach. Not in the same way Hergé wrote "CUT THE ROPE TINTIN. CUT! THE! ROPE!". No, nothing like that. Rather 'the only way out is through, Harriet. You've got this. Balls in one hand and a Crunchie bar in the other. You can do this girl. Come on now, enough with the moping.' And she'd be right. She'd remind me that somewhere, no matter how deep down it is, I do have the strength to sail on through the shit storm. If I don't have enough faith in myself, at least Dawn has.   

I don't know why she exists as an anchor in my mind; keeping me grounded to what's true and what's good. But she does. I suppose the bigger question I should be asking is why don't I give myself the same permission? The same opportunity to stand up for myself? There's a part of me that hopes to one day feel confident enough to take my own advice; trusting the Universe with its elusive process (and all the other bollocks that goes with it). However, for now, I'm more than okay with Dawn mothering me. She fills up the Mum-shaped hole that exists in my life. 

On days where I'm being particularly cruel to myself, Dawn tells me to make some scrambled eggs when I don't feel like eating. She bollocks me for being too lazy with my washing and winding up with no pants to wear. She laughs with me as I make a tit of myself to the cashier in the Co-op. She's there for me. She lives in my mind as a warm hug which I can just fall into at any moment.

Perhaps I've taken this all a bit too far. Deified her almost? I don’t care though. Not really. Every day she helps me love myself an inch more than the day before, so I'll put up with any criticisms. If I think long enough about it, I don't even think I'm alone in this. Nigel Slater is bound to be another character that lots of people trust with a position of authority. And that's ok. I think everyone deserves someone to tell them that they're ok, no matter how much they think otherwise.