You may think it strange, or simply irresponsible, to write about mental illness from the outside. But I have developed a compulsion to write. From the inside. And from this stammerous, self-prattifying exchange on facebook: Continue reading
March 27th. What a day. My dad’s 65th, my estranged sister returning from Australia after three years, clocks robbing us of an hour but giving us a precious new window of sunny delight.
And the day to declare my ‘individual enumeration’. AKA the census…..
The world’s oldest surviving census data comes from China over 4000 years ago. The most famous census in medieval Europe is the Domesday Book, undertaken in 1086 by Billy the first so that he could properly tax the land he had recently conquered.
And of course, to those of us predictably and laboriously schooled in the C of E tradition, Jesus was born with the cattle lowing, during a census. Continue reading
Hard to gain perspective in these winter months, isn’t it?
Constant drone of incubated thoughts clogged in my hypothalamus. It can’t be time to clean the bathroom floor again, can it?
There is no food in tesco express.
I’d pick up the phone and call my friends, if my face would recover from its lockjaw. I might make the effort to go out and see interesting unsigned bands, if I could fit into my jeans and stand comfortably, without fear of parasites from the past cheerfully tapping me on my hunched shoulders. Continue reading
The hideous squawking hubbub in the kitchen at work is starting to die a death now the joys of spring have naturally lifted a few pounds from everyone’s post-stollen haunches.
They think it’s the new diet plan. The one they’ve been monotonously droning on about since January 2, or whenever it was we were forced to come back and growl over our cookie-crumbed keyboards.
When typing this in predictive text on my phone I was delighted that unlike OCD, (which spells MAD and also OBE), SAD comes up as S…A….E. Yes…..self-addressed envelope. The official description.
As I lie collapsed on my fatigued sofa-cushions, (now relegated to the floor), I sigh in my toadstool-encrusted tracksuit bottoms.
“Oo noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo”, I mutedly squeak through gritted teeth, head gripped in my tortoise-skinned hands. “Oo noooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Continue reading
Last night I switched on the (rather flat) box as it used to be known, to be saved by wonderment. There’s nothing on, nowadays, which I used to think saved my life.
However, having lost internet connection (wireless) for forty-eight hours now, I realise I have developed a problem comparable with that of the telly-addict. The welly-addict.
And being without cables has enabled me to plan for the future, chill out, do the washing up and clear my thoughts sufficiently enough to go forth into this year with more clarity than when I was obsessing with the greedy animal in the corner. The internet. Beckoning me in with it’s poo-brown dating websites. Cajoling me with tangential googling. Making me keep up with the joneses, the smiths and any other idiot on FB. Continue reading