i am in a historical novel

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I'm not. But there is swirling mist beyond the bus windows, hiding the mountainous hills which exist not here in Flatland, but in my imagination. The wind turbines groan and mumble as the wind turns their sails, much like the old-fashioned windmill. My passenger carriage goes so fast that it must be being dragged by one hundred horses, who pant and snort their way through the twisty lanes, caring little about the bumps and falls which come as part of the package. I am not the weepy heroine, unable to survive without a romantic liaison with some dashingly brooding stud of a man. I am instead the stoically calm heroine, quietly pondering the world around her, bottling up those feelings that others have no problem releasing into the atmosphere, soaking them up before they damage the world. Other characters in my tale of woe will shortly come into view, and our heroine will gain a bigger knot of anxiety in her belly. Work is horrid. It is easy to say, Why don't you just find another job? but the sufferer of anxiety, depression and shyness, with her chronically introverted personality, would much prefer to stay with the Devil she knows than go through the rigmarole of job searching, CV updating, interviews and a bunch of new people. So, our heroine will stumble on and keep everything inside, a fizzy bottle of plonk just waiting for the right moment to explode. Enough rambling ... the bus is filling up. The poorly horses will soon be tired. Happy Day!