There's a dragon following me, Auntie

As if it's not enough to have terrified me to a trembling mass on the face of a boulder 15m above ground, I find the dragon is now flapping about my head all the way home from The Cloisters.

CB would like me to climb some more but all I can hear, see, smell, taste is the fire-breathing dragon of fear. CB patiently packs up all the climbing gear and we head back up the lovely bush track to the car park. My head is buzzing. Flap flap flap goes that dragon, its wings buffeting my head. An all-too familiar chant starts in my mind, like an old mantra, in time with my foot fall:

"I can't do it"
"I'm not good enough"
"I can't do it"
"I'm not good enough"
"I'm not good enough"
"I'm not good enough"
...

It's such a well-worn mental path of mine that I've abbreviated it to a pair of acronyms - ICDI and INGE. Cousin Icdi - "I Can't Do It" and Auntie Inge - "I'm Not Good Enough" occupy my brain waves each and every time my Inner Critic gets an upper hand and reminds me of my pervasive perceived failings.

Cousin Icdi and Auntie Inge came with the cows

Summer 1966, Alpi Marittime - the alps that border Italy and France in the Piemonte region of north-western Italy. Just short of my third birthday, my parents and I are enjoying a walk in a high mountain field full of daisies, lush pasture and ... cows. Piemontese dairy cows.

My babbo is a passionate photographer. He sees photo opportunities absolutely everywhere. He sees big, fat dairy cows peacefully standing around or lying in a high mountain pasture, chewing cud or happily grazing. He thinks it would be cute to snap his lovely little daughter patting a lying down cow while it munches lazily.

I see an enormous mass that's heaving, stinking and glaring at me as I approach. Its reclining form all but obliterates the sky.

Babbo's instruction is clear: "Go and pat that cow while I take your picture."

I'll do anything for my babbo.

I creep towards a recumbent cow. It peers at me. I inch closer. The cow is now glaring at me. I inch a bit further. Suddenly the cow is up and out of there.

"Try another one!" calls my babbo.

I look around, find another suitably reclining cow. Inch my way across. Carefully. A bit unsure, this time.

The cows have me figured out by now - this one jumps up and wanders off when I'm only half way to it, leaving me standing alone in the lush pasture and staring at its departing creamy-coloured, angular, grass-stained rump.

Babbo is starting to get impatient.

"Come on, it's not that hard. Try that one over there. Hurry up."

I have another go, this time only halfheartedly. I know the drill by now and so do the cows. I creep over, cow stands up and is gone, babbo grouches at me more firmly.

I'm now in tears, and my babbo gives up on his photo opportunity. He's exasperated. I'm three years old and I'm shattered.

Hello Cousin ICDI and Auntie INGE.