{"id":199,"date":"2025-11-28T16:59:03","date_gmt":"2025-11-28T16:59:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/slightlydoolally.com\/stories\/?p=199"},"modified":"2025-11-28T17:26:33","modified_gmt":"2025-11-28T17:26:33","slug":"norman-pricklethorn-and-the-great-worry-famine-of-2025","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/slightlydoolally.com\/stories\/index.php\/2025\/11\/28\/norman-pricklethorn-and-the-great-worry-famine-of-2025\/","title":{"rendered":"Norman Pricklethorn and the great Worry Famine of 2025"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Norman Pricklethorn is one of the world\u2019s amateur worriers, a professional overthinker, and reigning champion of his local community centre\u2019s \u201cCatastrophize Like a Pro!\u201d workshop, woke at precisely 6:03 a.m., as he always did. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his pride and joy: The List<\/em><\/strong>.<\/em> In Norman\u2019s head it was always written in bold text and italicized, and on a good day underlined.

The List<\/em><\/strong>, created on his phone, saved to the cloud and duplicated on his Tablet, Laptop and at least 2 printed copies, updated daily and stored in his study filing cabinet and the drawer in the wee table the house phone was on in the hall. It was ALWAYS close to hand! It contained every reasonable, marginally reasonable, and aggressively unreasonable thing he could worry about on any given day. He refreshed it nightly with the same devotion monks once reserved for illuminated manuscripts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He clicked on his bedside lamp, blinked at the page \u2026 and froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The List was blank.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Empty. Driven Snow White. A desert of nothingness. A spotless expanse that could drive a man to madness or worse, to peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman felt his throat tighten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he whispered. \u201cNo, no, no, this cannot be happening! Where are the parking fines I might have forgotten to pay? The suspicious mole on my left knee that looks slightly less like Australia than when I checked last week. The ominous feeling that I\u2019ve offended the postman?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A cold sweat broke across his forehead. \u201cI … I can\u2019t not have anything to worry about! That\u2019s something to worry about!\u201d

He wrote that down. Then immediately crossed it out because it felt rather silly and forced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just as he was on the verge of a full existential spiral and seriously considering whether his toaster might be plotting against him and will burn his morning crumpet, the doorbell rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ding-dong.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman jumped. \u201cAh! Good! Something! What if it\u2019s burglars? Or tax auditors? Or worse, neighbours?\u201d
He hurried to the door and flung it open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There, on his doorstep, stood three figures in togas.
Flowing white, gold trim, sandals, like a Greek drama club had wandered away from rehearsal. They looked slightly translucent, as though reality had decided to render them in \u201clow effort mode.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The one in the middle, tall and dark-eyed, stepped forward with a sigh so heavy it wilted the geraniums.
\u201cI am Oizys<\/strong>,\u201d she intoned. \u201cGoddess of anxiety, grief, depression, and misery.\u201d
Her voice carried the emotional weight of a tax form filled out in yellow crayon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To her left stood a man with dramatic cheekbones who kept glancing at the sky as if expecting fiery meteors.
\u201cMoros<\/strong>,\u201d he said. \u201cGod of impending doom. It\u2019s coming. All of it is coming. Probably today.\u201d
The third, much shorter, was nervously twisting the hem of her toga.
\u201cAnd I\u2019m Amechania<\/strong>,\u201d she whispered. \u201cGoddess of helplessness. I would shake your hand but\u2026 things might go wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked. \u201cYou\u2019re\u201d he paused seeking the correct way to say it lest he offend, \u201cGreek gods?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Moros nodded gravely.
 \u201cBusiness has been slow. Everyone\u2019s coping through confessional Vlogs and therapy apps.\u201d

\u201cExcept you,\u201d Oizys said, peering at him with professional interest. \u201cYou are one of our most promising mortals. A natural talent. A prodigy. A savant of spiralling.\u201d

\u201cWe follow your work closely,\u201d Amechania added. \u201cYour performance last Tuesday, worrying for two hours straight about whether your coat \u2018looked too confident\u2019 was inspiring.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blushed. \u201cOh well, I do my best.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys pointed at his blank List. \u201cWe sense a disturbance. Your worries have\u2026 vanished.\u201d
\u201cExtinct,\u201d Moros said. \u201cA great famine of fretfulness.\u201d
\u201cA drought of dread,\u201d Amechania murmured.
\u201cA scarcity of psychological snacks,\u201d Oizys added, trying out a modern metaphor and realised that  it did not really work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman nodded miserably. \u201cI.. I don\u2019t know what happened. I woke up and there was nothing left to worry about. Not a single anxiety!\u201d

The gods exchanged a concerned look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is worse than we feared,\u201d Moros said.
\u201cMuch worse,\u201d Oizys agreed. \u201cIf a mortal of your calibre runs out of worries\u2026 the balance of the universe is at risk.\u201d
\u201cWe\u2019re here to help you,\u201d Amechania said kindly. \u201cWe\u2019ll find your missing worries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman clasped his hands. \u201cTruly?\u201d
\u201cWe swear it on Olympus,\u201d Oizys said, dramatically raising her arms. \u201cWe shall restore your anxieties to their rightful place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros leaned in. \u201cJust\u2026 brace yourself. Whatever stole your worries\u2026\u201d
He paused for effect. \u201c\u2026may already be coming for your fears.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman gasped.
\u201cShould I worry about that?\u201d
\u201cOh heavens yes,\u201d Moros said. \u201cI would start immediately.\u201d

Norman , ushered the Gods into the living room as he closed his front door he noticed his neighbour from across the road, nice chap Michael O\u2019Donnell, talking animatedly with a sharply dressed man in suspiciously shiny brogues, he waved in what normally he would have worried was not a cheerful enough wave, but today \u2026 nothing not a twinge of anxiety.

He apologizing three times for the mess (there wasn\u2019t any), twice for the potential of mess (unlikely), and once for the concept<\/em> of mess in general (they assured him they\u2019d seen worse Oizys mentioned Pandora\u2019s bedroom).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods settled onto his sofa and chairs. The sofa creaked ominously as Moros sat on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh dear,\u201d Norman muttered. \u201cIt\u2019s never made that noise before. Do you think it\u2019s breaking? Collapsing? Imploding?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just sitting,\u201d Moros said, though with the tone of a man who wouldn\u2019t rule out<\/em> imminent furniture-based disaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania perched on the edge of an armchair like a sparrow expecting a cat. \u201cWe need to determine when the disappearance occurred. When was the last time you saw your worries?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLast night,\u201d Norman said. \u201cI updated The List<\/em><\/strong> at 11:17 p.m. precisely. I remember because I added a note about possibly having closed the back door with too much enthusiasm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys leaned forward, fingers steepled. \u201cExcellent. And the moment you woke it was empty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros crossed his arms. \u201cThis suggests interference. External, unnatural and probably malicious. Possibly apocalyptic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman paled. \u201cApocalyptic? As in\u2026 end of the world?!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, no,\u201d Moros said thoughtfully. \u201cNot that<\/em> apocalyptic. More like\u2026 a mild apocalypse. A small \u2018a.\u2019 Maybe just the end of Wednesdays as we know them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys rolled her eyes. \u201cWhat Moros means is: someone may have stole your worries or they just wandered off, they do that sometimes. We must look for signs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She snapped her fingers. A scroll appeared in a puff of dark, slightly citrus-scented smoke. \u201cA checklist,\u201d she said. Norman\u2019s heart fluttered. Lists. He trusted lists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania read from the top. \u201cFirst question: Did you recently throw anything away that you shouldn\u2019t have? Items often contain residual anxiety.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman gasped. \u201cYesterday I cleared a spam email promising to \u2018Remove all your worries with one click!!!\u2019 I thought it was a scam!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The three gods exchanged a horrified look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNorman,\u201d Oizys whispered, \u201cthat was no ordinary spam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was a trap,\u201d Moros said. \u201cA temptation. A siren call.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt had three exclamation marks,\u201d Amechania added gravely. \u201cNo mortal should resist that kind of punctuation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman wrung his hands. \u201cDid I\u2026 click it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys placed a cold, gloomy hand on his shoulder. \u201cYou must search deep into your memory. Recall your actions. Think back to the moment you opened that email.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman shut his eyes. \u201cI\u2026 hovered over it. I hovered for a long time. But then I deleted it. I was proud of myself!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania frowned. \u201cDeleting it may have activated a failsafe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros nodded. \u201cThe \u2018Oh, so you\u2019re not worried about spam and phishing?\u2019 protocol.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cKnown as the Calmness Penalty<\/em>,\u201d Oizys added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman nearly fainted. \u201cSo by trying not to worry\u2026 I triggered a catastrophe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All three gods answered at once:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cPossibly.\u201d
\u201cOh absolutely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman collapsed into his chair. \u201cWhat do we do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros walked to the window and stared out dramatically. \u201cWe must track your worries. Whatever caused this to happen is dangerous, bold, and almost certainly overconfident.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys flicked her fingers, conjuring a spectral map formed of smoke and sighs. \u201cYour worries form a unique emotional signature. If they were devoured, we will smell misery. If hoarded, we will sense tension. If converted to something else\u2026\u201d She paused. \u201cWell. Let\u2019s not consider that possibility yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat could they be converted into?\u201d Norman asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania whispered, \u201cConfidence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman screamed and held his head in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros clapped his hands over Norman\u2019s ears. \u201cCareful! Mortals can only handle so many plot twists before noon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys drew a circle on the map. \u201cThere. Your worries are not gone. They have been centralized. Stored. Gathered in one place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman leaned over the map. \u201cWhere is that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The smoke swirled, condensed, and formed a glowing point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods leaned close.
Norman leaned closer.
The point pulsed ominously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s\u2026\u201d Oizys whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They all squinted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026you<\/strong>r garden shed<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked. \u201cMy shed? But I haven\u2019t cleaned it since 2022. That was \u201d .. he searched his inner list \u2026 \u201cNumber 7 on The List<\/em><\/strong>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros gave a slow, grim nod. \u201cPrecisely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania shivered. \u201cWhatever lurks in there now\u2026 is feeding on your old anxieties.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys rose. \u201cNorman Pricklethorn. Grab your coat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to .. \u201c he paused, Norman thought he was a little over dramatic \u201d \u2026 the shed.\u201d
From somewhere they heard a small orchestra go \u201cDum dum DUMMMMMMMM!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman swallowed hard. \u201cShould I worry?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys smiled faintly. \u201cYou\u2019re starting to sound like yourself again.\u201d

Norman put on his coat , which, as Amechania observed with interest, did<\/em> look rather confident and stepped outside with the gods in tow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Across the street, Michael O\u2019Donnell had now moved on to pacing, waving his arms and pointing at his car, as the sharply dressed man in shiny brogues nodded along with the practised patience of someone used to difficult customers. Norman waved mainly out of habit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShould I wave again?\u201d Norman whispered. \u201cWas the first one too brief? Too enthusiastic? Too\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the moment he reached for the familiar spiral of social anxiety\u2026 nothing.
No twinge.
No flutter.
Just a calm void where the panic used to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was deeply unsettling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys tutted sympathetically. \u201cWe\u2019ll get you fixed in no time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They reached the garden gate, which emitted a tortured creeaak<\/em> when Norman opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania jumped. \u201cWas\u2026 was that the shed? Or\u2026 the gate?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe gate,\u201d Norman said. \u201cBut it does<\/em> often sound like it\u2019s plotting something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros gave the hinge a hard, suspicious look. \u201cWe\u2019ll deal with you later.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They advanced across the lawn. A chilly wind picked up, the kind that only blows when something ill-advised is about to happen. The shed sat at the far end of the garden like a small, lopsided crypt, leaning slightly, as if trying to escape its own contents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys lifted her hand. \u201cDo you feel that?\u201d
The air shimmered. Norman could hear a faint humming?
No, not humming, it was fretting.<\/em>
The shed was fretting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman swallowed. \u201cThat doesn\u2019t sound healthy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIndeed,\u201d Moros murmured. \u201cSheds should not emote.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania clung to his sleeve. \u201cIt\u2019s worse than I feared. Something inside is\u2026 anxious.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys nodded grimly. \u201cYour anxieties are inside, all right. Decades  worth.  Pressurised. Concentrated. When you lost them they\u2019ve fused into a single entity and went to the place that was number 7 on your list.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked. \u201cA single\u2026 what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before anyone could answer, the shed door rattled. Once. Twice. Then burst open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A cloud of shimmering, jittery energy poured into the garden like a swarm of caffeine-infused bees. It pulsed, jittered, twitched a living mass of pure, weaponised nervousness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman stared, open-mouthed.
Oizys gasped.
Amechania squeaked.
Moros muttered triumphantly, \u201cI knew it!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The creature if \u201ccreature\u201d was even the word that described it,  floated forward, vibrating at a frequency only dogs or extremely anxious auditors faced with a policy failure could hear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is that?\u201d Norman whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys answered softly, reverently:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour worry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania corrected, \u201cAll your worries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros nodded gravely. \u201cBehold: the Anxietron.<\/em> Formed from every trembling thought you\u2019ve ever had. Every sleepless night. Every \u2018what if\u2019 that never found a home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman took a step forward. He wasn\u2019t sure why. The creature quivered eagerly at his approach, like an abandoned puppy made of dread.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2026 likes you,\u201d Amechania said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course it does,\u201d Oizys added. \u201cYou created it. Fed it. Nurtured it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s basically family,\u201d Moros said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron surged closer, hovering inches from Norman\u2019s face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman raised a hand. \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron responded with an enthusiastic full-body tremble that shook a nearby flowerpot off its stand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman looked back at the gods. \u201cWhat do I do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys clasped her hands. \u201cYou must reclaim it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros cleared his throat. \u201cYou must worry. Harder than you\u2019ve ever worried before. Enough to pull it back into yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania nodded. \u201cWorry like the world depends on it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cBut I have\u2026 nothing<\/em> to worry about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods exchanged a tense look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen we\u2019ll help,\u201d Oizys said. \u201cQuickly \u2014 think of something stressful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania offered, \u201cWhat if you left the stove on?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOr made a mistake in your taxes?\u201d Moros suggested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys snapped her fingers. \u201cWhat if your neighbour\u2019s friend in the shiny brogues is here to complain about your hedges?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman felt\u2026 something. A tiny flicker.
A spark.
A micro-anxiety.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron pulsed expectantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then, suddenly from across the road a familiar voice called out:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNorman! Did you mean to leave your bin out on recycling day?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman\u2019s entire body convulsed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron shrieked with delight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys grinned. \u201cOh, yes. That\u2019ll do nicely.\u201d

Before Norman could respond, the Anxietron lunged not maliciously, but with the overenthusiastic energy of an excitable fog bank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wrapped around him like a vibrating duvet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman staggered backward, arms windmilling. \u201cOh! Oh dear! It\u2019s\u2026 it\u2019s quite tingly! Like a static shock but with intentions!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood!\u201d Oizys called. \u201cYour worry-flux is reactivating!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania bit her nails. \u201cOr it\u2019s consuming him. Hard to say yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBoth are perfectly normal outcomes,\u201d Moros added reassuringly, which was not at all reassuring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron pulsed, rippled, and then to Norman\u2019s horror began trying to pour<\/em> itself into him via his ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs this supposed to\u2026 mffh \u2026 feel like I\u2019m being filled with fizzy dread?\u201d Norman sputtered, slapping at the cloud like someone trying to bat away aggressive glitter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes!\u201d Oizys said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d Amechania yelped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPossibly!\u201d Moros shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron trembled with impatient eagerness. Norman tried to summon a proper panic spiral something classic, something robust but the calm emptiness inside him was still too vast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh no,\u201d he whispered. \u201cI can\u2019t hold the worry. There\u2019s too much of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron responded by squeezing tighter, as if trying to reassure him through the medium of anxious compression.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Across the road, Michael O\u2019Donnell continued shouting about bins and cars and shiny-brogue men, blissfully unaware that a man was currently being emotionally mugged by his own stress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman forced himself to close his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThink, Norman. You were once the champion of catastrophizing. You worried about whether umbrellas judged you when you closed them too forcibly. You worried you weren\u2019t watering your plants enough even the plastic ones. You CAN do this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He inhaled deeply, conjuring the memory of an all-time-classic anxiety:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat if,\u201d he whispered, trembling, \u201cwhat if the Wi-Fi goes out\u2026 Mid Windows 11 update?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods gasped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron let out a delighted, shimmering screech.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman felt something, a trickle of dread, a warm, familiar tension returning to the edges of his mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes!\u201d Oizys cried. \u201cYES! That\u2019s it!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But then, quite suddenly, the Anxietron stiffened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shivered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then slowly turned, if a cloud of concentrated neurosis can be said to turn anywhere, toward the hedge along Norman\u2019s garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The hedge rustled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then a shadow stepped out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A tall, thin man in an immaculate grey suit. Mirror-polished brogues. Crisp white shirt. Sunglasses dark enough to reflect Norman\u2019s startled face back at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The shiny-brogues man from across the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Except now, up close, he didn\u2019t look quite\u2026 human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys hissed. \u201cOh no.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros took a step back. \u201cIt\u2019s him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania whimpered. \u201cNot now\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked. \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man smiled a perfect, corporate smile.
Cold.
Empty.
Professionally menacing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood morning, Mr. Pricklethorn,\u201d he said smoothly.
\u201cI see you\u2019ve located your\u2026 emotional asset  .. we are in the process of repossessing it\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked. \u201cMy what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m here,\u201d he said, \u201con behalf of the Department of Unproductive Feelings,  the DUF are understaffed at the minute after the outbreak of roundabout painting in Cheltnam and I am filling in for Nigel and I am a little late for the repossession\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He adjusted his tie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I\u2019m afraid your worries are now several months in arrears.\u201d

The man sighed with the weariness of someone who had already been disappointed by today.
\u201cAnyway \u2026 I am here as the duly appointed representative of the Department of Unproductive Feelings, Enforcement Division. We\u2019ve had reports of an unregistered Emotional Accumulation in this vicinity and we are here to repossess it\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros groaned. \u201cOh no. Not them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania hid behind Norman. \u201cThey audited me last year.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The well shod man flipped open his parchment clipboard. It crackled ominously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr Pricklethorn, it appears you have accrued \u2026 \u201d he squinted, \u201c\u2026a backlog of\u2026 oh dear oh dear oh dear\u2026 forty-seven years of unprocessed anxieties. That places you in violation of Emotional Tax Code 14B, subsection \u2018Chronic Internalisation.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman stared at him, appalled.
\u201cI didn\u2019t mean<\/em> to collect them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what they all say,\u201d the man replied, making a tick on his parchment that sounded far too judgmental. \u201cPer regulations, all unclaimed anxieties must be repossessed and redistributed among the general population.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He had in his hand a sack labelled COMMUNITY DREAD FUND<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron let out a horrified whine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys stepped forward. \u201cYou can\u2019t take his worries. He needs them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man raised an eyebrow. \u201cNeeds them? These are extremely overdue. Honestly, most mortals would have burst into flames from the emotional pressure. Frankly, he\u2019s lucky we\u2019re only here for repossession.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman swallowed. \u201cIsn\u2019t there\u2026 some kind of appeal process?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The DUF agent sighed, the sigh of bureaucrats who lived<\/em> for someone asking that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A second scroll was produced. \u201cForm W-11: Petition for Temporary Retention of Personal Existential Despair. You may file it, but I should warn you, approval requires demonstrating that your anxieties are contributing meaningfully to society.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman blinked.
\u201cBut\u2026 they\u2019re just\u2026 my worries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man nodded sympathetically. \u201cAnd we respect that. But under Emotional Taxation Law, personal dread must yield either productivity, creative output, or portable guilt. Otherwise, it\u2019s classified as Hoarded Malaise.\u201d .. he pointed at the Anxietron \u2026  \u201cthat is definitely hoarding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron let out a guilt-laden shiver and tried to get back in the shed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys leaned toward Norman. \u201cNegotiate. You can do this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI..I can?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d Moros said. \u201cNo one is better at catastrophising likely outcomes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman took a deep breath. \u201cOkay. Let me just\u2026 ask. What\u2019s the current Emotional Debt Rate?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The collector perked up bureaucrats love a man who knows the lingo.
\u201cWell, given the cost-of-living crisis, governmental austerity policies and the recent shortage of premium-grade angst outside of the Reform Parties Immigration policies, we\u2019re charging 3.7% Compounded Uncertainty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman frowned. \u201cThat seems high.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was<\/em> 4.2% last quarter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut these anxieties weren\u2019t making trouble,\u201d Norman argued. \u201cThey were stored safely. Contained. My shed is up to code.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania muttered, \u201cDebatable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The collector looked uneasy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Finally, he said,
\u201cTell you what. If you can demonstrate a healthy, sustainable worrying pattern enough to stabilise the Anxietron without allowing a Category Five Spiral I can issue a provisional waiver. I am feeling particularly good about the world today\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA\u2026 demonstration of productive worrying ?\u201d Norman echoed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys smiled brightly. \u201cWe believe in you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The collector readied his clipboard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods stepped aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron hovered expectantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman inhaled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And for the first time in his life, he worried\u2026on purpose.

<\/strong>Norman closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He needed<\/em> a worry. Something potent. Something classic. Something only he could produce.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He searched the dusty filing cabinet of his mind\u2026 and found it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat if,\u201d he whispered, \u201cI didn\u2019t iron\u2026 my socks?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys gasped. Amechania nearly fainted. Even Moros clutched his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman continued, voice trembling:
\u201cMy freshly laundered socks. And my underpants. What if someone at work does a\u2026 random underwear inspection?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The DUF agent froze mid-scribble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat,\u201d the agent murmured, \u201cis highly non-standard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Encouraged, Norman dug deeper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what if\u2026\u201d he gulped…\u201d they change the toilet paper in the executive bathrooms?
From four-ply to one-ply?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania shrieked. \u201cNo! Not the downgrade!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman nodded grimly.
\u201cYes. One-ply. And what if oh heavens what if it doesn\u2019t pass the two-finger wipe stress test?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A stunned silence fell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even the wind held its breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then: vrrrrrrrrrmmm\u2014!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron surged forward, tendrils of existential Fear-Of-Missing-Out stretching toward Norman\u2019s ears like overexcited anxiety-vines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The DUF agent removed his glasses. \u201cBy the gods\u2026 that is textbook catastrophic projection.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reached into his suit, pulled out a heavy rubber stamp, and thunked<\/em> it onto the W-11 form.
A glowing bureaucratic sigil flared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExtension granted,\u201d he declared. \u201cThree years. But Mr Pricklethorn\u2026.\u201d he raised a stern finger \u201c \u2026 you must maintain your worries at the industry-standard volume. No hoarding. No neglect. And no more emotional pressure cookers in sheds.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman nodded solemnly. \u201cI\u2019ll\u2026 try my best.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTry harder,\u201d the agent said, then vanished in a puff of auditor steam, which smelled faintly of over brewed coffee and dread.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Oizys threw her arms around Norman.
\u201cYou did it!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amechania bounced on her toes. \u201cYour worrycraft is magnificent!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moros nodded approvingly. \u201cA healthy, responsible level of neurosis. Very sustainable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Anxietron, thrumming happily, wrapped around Norman like a loyal, jittery pet. Then, with a soft whoomph<\/em>, it dissolved into a thousand tiny sparkles of dread and reabsorbed straight back into him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman wobbled slightly.
\u201cOh. There it is. Anxiety\u2026 restored.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gods cheered and marched him triumphantly back toward the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside, the familiar scrap of paper lay on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The List<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was full again, gloriously, reassuringly, overwhelmingly full. Tasks and worries and what-ifs and definitely-nots and maybe-laters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Norman smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A deep, relieved breath left his lungs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll back to normal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Outside, across the road, Michael O\u2019Donnell had found a fresh reason to shout at his bins and strangely the man from number 23 was on the receiving end of some professional finger wagging. He could worry about that, he made a note on The List<\/em><\/strong>, and for the first time that day, Norman felt a pleasant, manageable flutter of concern.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The world was right again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Norman Pricklethorn, amateur but undeniably talented worrier, finally had something to worry about.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Norman Pricklethorn is one of the world\u2019s amateur worriers, a professional overthinker, and reigning champion of his local community centre\u2019s \u201cCatastrophize Like a Pro!\u201d workshop, woke at precisely 6:03 a.m., as he always did. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his pride and joy: The List. In Norman\u2019s head it was always written…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":200,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,18],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-199","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories","category-nether-oak-close-stories"],"yoast_head":"\nNorman Pricklethorn and the great Worry Famine of 2025 - The Mess and The Meaning<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/slightlydoolally.com\/stories\/index.php\/2025\/11\/28\/norman-pricklethorn-and-the-great-worry-famine-of-2025\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Norman Pricklethorn and the great Worry Famine of 2025 - The Mess and The Meaning\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Norman Pricklethorn is one of the world\u2019s amateur worriers, a professional overthinker, and reigning champion of his local community centre\u2019s \u201cCatastrophize Like a Pro!\u201d workshop, woke at precisely 6:03 a.m., as he always did. 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