Running from demons

[A short piece of fiction for you this Halloween evening, inspired by a nightmare I once had.]

Everything looks grey, as though I have filters over my eyes. 

     I am running behind a man, following him up a metal staircase.  We are in a hurry, but I’m not sure why. 

     The stairs lead to a room with a low ceiling, where the man walks into the centre of the room and looks up.  There is a hole in the ceiling; and he reaches up, and pulls himself through it.  He momentarily disappears, but then leans back through the hole and offers me his hand, helping me to climb into the cavern above.    

     The man, who is a stranger to me; is short and stocky, unshaven and dirty.  He walks over to the machinery, that runs all the way round the walls of the cavern;  looking at the dials and pipes that emerge from the machines, when suddenly he looks up.  He places one finger to his lips, while at the same time motioning with his hand for me to stop moving.  There is a constant drone in this place, like that of a manufacturing factory, but the noise is distant.  But now I can hear something else.  Something is moving.  Things are coming from above.

     The stranger motions to me to run for the hole in the floor, and as he’s sliding through it himself, it starts to close, making a stony grating noise.  I dash for the hole, but can’t make it and it shuts tight with me trapped on this side.  The noises from above get louder, as whatever it is moves down towards me.  Running to the nearest machine, I squeeze myself in between the pipes.  I slide further and further among the metal tubes to get as far out of sight as possible, and finally my back is against hard wall.  I slip down until my knees are drawn up level with my chin, and the flamethrower that I carry points out into the cavern.  

     My breathing is shallow as I try to become a silent, inanimate part of the machine.  I melt and disappear into the shadows, filth and dust.  There is nowhere else to go, no escape.  

     From my hiding place I see them drop to the floor. 

     They are black and hateful.  

     They are ugly and full of malice. 

     They are low to the ground like cats when stalking prey.  Their heads spin round looking this way and that, searching.  Tongues flicking, tasting the dusty air.  They have limbs like humans, but not covered in soft skin; theirs is an ugly leather black hide, covered in spikes like a desert lizard.  They gradually raise themselves up from the ground to stand about 7 foot high, still spinning and turning, inspecting the cavern.  The things start spreading out to the machines that surround me.  They turn dials and pull levers.  They love this machine, but it does nothing of any good for mankind.  The contraption hisses and spits and kills.  It smells of creosote and damp, burning plastic and rotten meat. 

     I think I’m safe for the moment, and I allow my eyes to close.  Someone will come to get me, I feel sure of that, or at least hope they will.  Meanwhile the demons carry on their work, oblivious to my presence, for the moment. 

     I wait, and so do they.

        

Hospital yellow and late night jazz

[I first posted 'Hospital yellow and late night jazz' onto my blog in August 2010, after my youngest daughter Beth, was taken ill with a skin disease called: Henoch–Schönlein purpura.  It was by far one of my most popular posts, and I hope long time blogging friends won't mind me re-posting it for my newer visitors.]

My phone is ringing somewhere downstairs which can’t be a good thing. Not only because I’m in the bath which is where I always seem to be when I get a call, but because phone calls late at night are rarely positive in my experience. My girlfriend answers it and I hear a discussion ensue, her voice muffled. Footsteps sound out along the hall and she hands me my mobile and tells me that the Ex-Wife is on the other end, calling from the local hospital.

     Later, I find myself walking into a hot waiting room full of the sick and injured and wonder how so many people are here so late at night. They all sit on uncomfortable, crappy plastic chairs in the hope of seeing a doctor sometime soon, some reading books and others who have come with a friend are chatting. At the other end of the waiting room rows of vending machines light up the doors into the A&E for children and I make my way towards them.

     Rows of bright yellow curtains greet me. They surround the beds so that the inhabitants are hidden from view. Hushed voices come from behind. Voices of parents reassuring little children or maybe even themselves.

     The sound of my flip-flops echo, slapping on the dark black shiny floor as I make my way towards the last yellow curtain. I pull aside the curtain and there is Beth lying on a bed looking very pale and tearful, her forearm resting across her head, her legs pulled up so that her knees are fully bent and against her chest. Standing next to Beth are my Ex-Wife and her long-time boyfriend. He looks pissed off that I’ve turned up; she looks as though she needs a break.

     They go and I’m left with Beth for the first time in a while. For a few minutes we hardly talk. I rub my hand on her arm as she tells me what’s going on and when she’s finished we sit for a bit listening to the world outside our yellow cubicle. The little boy next door has broken his arm and I can hear him telling his dad,

     ‘Don’t make me laugh dad, if I laugh it hurts.’ We hear him laugh again and then he cries out and then he laughs again.

     Somewhere a baby is screaming its head off. It’s that sort of dry sounding scream that babies make when they are tiny. Just below the yellow curtains the bottom of a pair of black trousers has appeared. The hems of them have come unstitched and even so they barely cover the worn out shoes below them. The owner of the trousers shouts – in tears – to a woman across the room about the screaming baby,

     ‘I can’t stay here listening to him crying anymore. Do you hear, he keeps holding his breath?’

     I point out to Beth that the blue plaster on the back of her hand has little animals printed on it. I ask her what they are and even though she’s nearly fifteen years old she plays the game and tells me. I notice that the bed can be adjusted to lots of different angles and so I jack it up, her feet much higher than her head till she laughs. A nurse opens the curtains nearly catching us out. We can go upstairs now to the teenage ward. As we leave I notice a young girl dressed in black turns away from a baby that is in a cot and stands hands on hips, her face so very red from tears.

     It seems we walk for miles along a labyrinth of empty corridors, some with yellow buckets catching rainwater that runs through holes in the roof. The nurse escorting us tries to explain in a soft Irish voice,

     ‘This building is just so old that it’s falling apart.’

     The nurse seems embarrassed by the leaks but she needn’t be, it’s not her fault. We continue our long walk past darkened windows, occasionally passing a cleaner with a mop working the nightshift.

     We pass the closed fracture clinic, neurology and then eventually I see the double doors to the children’s ward. Next to them a single green door leads to the maternity unit. The last time I was here I proudly carried out - in my arms - a little baby girl. The girl I return with now is still little to me, she’s just older.

     They put her in a side room on her own. It is silent up here compared to the A&E. It’s also cooler and I unfold the blanket from the end of the bed and cover her with it. The TV doesn’t work at this time of night but the radio does and I flick through the stations looking for something she might like eventually settling for late night Jazz which she hates.

     ‘Hey,’ I tell her, ‘Jazz is good for this time of night.’ But we decide to turn it off and instead I get on the bed next to her and we lay listening to distant noises in the hospital.

     Later, her mum comes back alone.

     She has brought a toothbrush; PJs, magazines and a phone charger.

     We talk for five minutes about Beth, and then because she is tired and not thinking straight she tells me an odd story about a frog. Years ago when we were still married we did some landscaping in the back garden. We had to move the shed and in doing so we disturbed a frog that lived underneath. That frog has apparently been living under the new decking ever since, quite happily eating the slugs that it shares its home with. Earlier in the day the Ex-wife was strimming the grass when she accidently cut one of the frog’s legs off.

     ‘It was just a frog, but it was my frog,’ she says, as though even a garden frog can become someone you miss.

     'It’s late,’ I tell them both, stating the obvious, ‘I best get home.’

     Beth looks out from behind the arm that is hiding her face, and asks,

     ‘Will you be able to find your way out ok?’

     ‘Yes I’m all grown up now,’ I reply, which makes her smile. I give Beth a hug and I’m gone.

     When I get back home, I text this message to her:

     I can’t find my way out so I’ve got a bed in the geriatric ward. See you at breakfast.

     Her reply is swift, as she like all teenagers has texting thumbs:

     Lol are you home?

     I try to get to sleep knowing that I will struggle. I think about the girl, and the little baby and wonder if it’s ok. I check that my phone is still turned on and hope that it doesn’t ring again tonight. For a few moments, I lay dreaming of Beth and a dad with a baby and hopes, prayers, and of yellow curtains and Cheetahs.

Stiffness

[Three years ago today, on my fortieth birthday, I posted this tongue in cheek piece regarding my thoughts, and feelings about the trauma of turning forty. After some hunting round the web, I also found the photo (taken by me at the Tate Modern) which accompanied the original post, which to me; was very funny, but nobody else seemed to think so. Please have a look (still tongue in cheek thank god) and enjoy.]

The Tate Modern:  standing very proud.

I’m worried about getting old. I’ve got a couple more days left where I can honestly say “Yea, I’m in my 30’s too.” I remember going to a surprise party years ago for a relative who was turning 40.

     Him and he’s friends all seemed so old.

     The music at the party was so ancient.

     Last year when my friend went through the 40 barrier I have to admit I took the piss quite a lot. And although she’s not said anything about my approaching birthday I know she’s just biding her time to rip into me with the 40’s gags! But the thing that really worries me is I keep seeing an advert on TV, staring Pele, that goes something like:

     “In your 40’; got problems maintaining your erection?”

     Now I don’t mind starting to wear beige comfortable trousers, or even listening to cricket on the radio, but I refuse to get fortied-up in the bedroom! The ad implies that it will happen over night. I’ll just wake-up one morning; and it’ll be Mr Floppy! No never, I’ll fight that one till the end. But hey, worse comes to worse there’s always Viagra and the world’s greatest footballer I suppose.

7 Days Of Blog #5

Originally when I started 7 Days Of Blog, I wasn’t going to mention any posts from well known, established bloggers – the Blogerati. I was only going to talk about posts from bloggers who wrote things I enjoyed, on blogs with very little traffic or comments: in a supporting other lesser known bloggers, type of way. Needless to say, I have twice this week broken that rule, by picking pieces of writing by very well known bloggers (both Blogger BON), that need no introductions, or extra visitors to their blogs; but I just loved what they did last week.

The first of my favourite posts from last week is by S.L. Keniston, and is a brand new blog for me.

Float On – The Squid and The Web

I love this post because I know exactly what he is talking about. The feeling you get after seeing a good film in a cinema is, I think, similar to a high from drugs. The movie lingers on with you for a while, which he has written about beautifully. I also love his observations of the street life outside on the walk back to his car.

HolidaySnapshots 2 – Happy Frog and I

Holiday snapshots is a very vivid piece that did such a great job of painting a holiday scene – set next to a swimming pool – that it made me want to go there myself. Well... except for the bit about the wasps! The ability to transport the reader to another time or place is a great skill, used brilliantly here. I’ve been a long time fan of this blog, and really enjoyed this post – well done Abbey.

The hour before – Resistant But Persistent

This post by Sharon Longworth is in the same sort of style that I love, and is what I’m going to call “future melancholy,” which I know sounds wrong, but I’m struggling to find a way to describe it. If I were filming this as a short movie, it would definitely be in black and white; no sound track, just the repetitive call of the wood pigeons, balancing on the telephone wires that string across the other side of the street.

100 Words: Well maybe

I remember defending her from another mans angry wife.
The wife and friend who accused her of having an affair, with her own husband.
Ambushed in a cold grey soulless car-park;
snarling faces,
tears,
and huge life changing accusations.
Curtains all around twitching
as the gossip mongers gather their fresh new material,
all ready for the school gates,
bus stop
or the queue at the local post office.
I remember screaming out: “No never – not her.”
But in the end she did have an affair with the husband of her neighbour, 
and friend. 
Now I sometimes wonder: “Well, maybe.”

Guest blogger: Jonathan Manor

It takes something special for me to whore my blog out to another blogger. I don’t take interviews or guest blogger posts lightly, and have only done two since early 2008; but when the opportunity came along to work with one of my favourite bloggers I jumped at the chance.

Jonathan Manor is the author of Evening Revolution which I follow avidly, along with many others bloggers.  Jon’s blog posts range from diary entries, dating, topics of men's interest, political and philosophical views, self improvement, and writing.  He resides in San Diego CA. where’s he's currently working on a top secret book which will most likely create a legion of devout followers and spark an inferno.  He likes pie and frisky women.  

Jonathan sent me a few short stories to choose from, but these two –“Wire Hanger” and “Buttons” - immediately jumped out at me.  Please have a read, and maybe give Jon a visit over at his blog.      

Wire Hanger

The sun had been on Chava’s forehead for hours now.  The sweat found places to hide in his hair.  Every time he ran his nails across his scalp, it felt like he was dabbing his fingers into a sponge.  He had been dragging Miriam’s body by her collar across the desert since she passed out and died of exhaustion.  The blood had dried from her neck.  For miles ahead, there wasn’t anything but the hills upon hills of beige sand.  The sun had been climbing and rising slowly, very slowly.  It could wait all day in some cruel staring competition against Chava.

Chava broke down onto his knees.  His throat sore and in pain.  His mouth, his stomach, his throat, were at war with each other.  They all turned into a burden for him.  It nagged at him, whined like little children, hungry little brats.  Chava stared at his dead wife.  Her eyes sank sideways.  He was thirsty.  He was hungry again.  All across his mouth were battered and dried up layers of dead skin pealing off of his lips.  He pulled out the wire hanger he’d been using on her.  It was broken in a way that left two open ends free.  He crawled to her face.  He pulled her head back to stretch out her neck.  He could feel the whims of defeat pulling on his face, but the rumble of his stomach was even louder.

He could almost imagine her laughter, as he jammed the wire into the heavy veins in her white neck.

 Buttons 

“Do you like buttons?” Mald asked.
Sherry didn’t respond.
“I like buttons.  They’re always bringing things together; always unifying things.”
Sherry watched as he came closer to her.
“See, the thing about buttons and unity, is that they hide things.  They convey a togetherness, so that they could hide what’s behind the surface.  You know what’s behind the surface Sherry?”
Sherry watched his eyes as his stared at her chest.
“Anarchy.  Love.  Feelings.  Emotions.  Trembling.  Pain.  Everything that we want, that is real.  Unity is not real.  It’s what stupid people do so other people could agree with them.  Unity is for the insecure.  Unity is compromise.”
A slight whisper came from Sherry’s nose.  She humbly placed her fingers entwined in her lap as Mald pulled the first button from her blouse free.
“You know what’s real, Sherry?  Freedom,” he said, pulling off yet another one of her buttons.  The curving shape of her breasts started to show.
“You know why I like buttons?  Because they’re in the way.”  He slid one of the round buttons slowly as it escaped out of it’s hoop.  He could see Sherry’s pink laced bra.  “These buttons, they make it seem like I’m working for my freedom.  These buttons are the soldiers, the mindless cogs that keep us from having our own opinions.  They keep us from the truth.  They’re the war machines.”
Sherry laughed, “War machines?”
Mald shook his head, “. . . yeah.”
“You’re getting really philosophical about sex,” she said, “It’s kind of killing the sexuality.”
“There would be no sexuality without war,” Mald said, “Then it’d just be a chore.”

7 Days Of Blog #4

Normal service is resumed after last week’s festival of special event, blog posts. I won’t go on too much, but many thanks to everyone who read, or left a comment at my post about “depression” for World Mental Health Day 2011 – you know who you are; and I appreciate your blogging support very much.

This week’s 7DOB have one thing in common: They all made me laugh; from the hilarious trauma of 1970s Tupperware, to a poor girl’s lack of sleep due to someone else’s sleep irregularities, to a tale involving a blow lamp, a roof and my own personal nemesis: wasps! 

Where the fuck is the lid?!? - My point being 

“My point being” is reasonably new blog to me that I’ve only been following since August. I have no idea how I found it – maybe it found me, but it’s quickly become one of my favourite reads. The blogs author Dan, who lives in the very lovely Melbourne Australia, writes about events in his life – past and present – in such a way that I regularly actually do “laugh out loud,” and this post from last week about 70s Tupperware, called “Where the fuck is the lid?!?” is a great example. I find the best way to read Dan’s blog is to put on an Australian accent, especially for the swearing bits – try it, you’ll see it works a treat. 

 ...in the midnight hour – It’s an average life

Some of the people who have been following my blog over the years, or chat to me on Twitter, will know of my sleep problems: namely insomnia, but just lately I’ve also had other stuff going on at night. I’ve been waking up with my heart absolutely racing away in my chest, and I’ve been trying to swipe imaginary insects from my face and head. In doing this swiping the other night I inadvertently slapped my girlfriend! So I couldn’t help, noticing this great post by Average Girl (her words, not mine) about her partners annoying night time habits. Sorry Average Girl: I’m laughing at your post, and I’m not sure if that’s what you intended, but I really enjoyed it anyway.  

Eddie Inspires A Neighbour To Paint His House – Clouds and silvery linings

Eddie Bluelights tale of very dodgy scaffolding, and painting and decorating, not only made me smile, but reminded me of a brief period in my life when I was did the same for a living during the 1980s. Way back before the “health and safety” man, we used to work in some incredibly dangerous situations with no hardhats, or harnesses to keep us safe, leaning off ladders rather than moving them, and climbing hazardous scaffolding erected by idiots (us). Thanks Eddy for making me laugh with your post.

Blog Action Day 2011 - Food

[To show my support for Blog Action Day 2011, I’m posting this short piece about their subject this year which is: food.]

She would always be wearing a flowery pinny, and would come into the front room of the small red bricked maisonette where we lived on Heston Grange, and ask, “Shall I make you marmalade on cream crackers for tea today?”  I would always say yes to my mum when she asked me this question.  Marmalade on cream crackers was one of my favourite things to eat for tea.  I also loved jam on crackers, or maybe even marmite, but orange marmalade on crackers was the best. 

Leaving the toys spread across the floor, I would run round to the kitchen where mum would lift me high up onto the work top, so I could eat, and look out of the kitchen window at the same time.  She would pass me four cream crackers on a plate, and I would sit staring out at the lorries and cars as they whooshed past on the M4 motorway.  Mum would sit on a wooden chair, next to a tiny table that barely fit into the kitchen, and watch me eat.  Even now I can remember the sharp taste of orange marmalade as I bit into the crunchy cracker; the butter underneath, oozing through the cracks. 

My mum always seemed to encourage me to do things in the kitchen when I was young; or maybe I just wanted to help: although I suspect I was anything but helpful.  She had this metal contraption with a handle, that she used to fit onto the edge of the work-top that was for grinding meat.  One of the highlights of any childhood day for me was sitting up there on the work top; putting bits of meat into the grinder to make mince.  She also used to bake all the time.  We would have rock cakes, scones and lovely fairy cakes with white icing, and delicate little wings cut out of the top of the cake.  I would always try to steal a red glacier cherry from the little plastic tub when she wasn’t looking; quickly popping it into my mouth when her back was turned.  Another childhood delicacy was spooning the leftovers out of the mixing bowl; that large beige mixing bowl that every mum in the world seems to have in her kitchen.  Long before it was deemed unsafe to eat raw egg, I would be scooping the side of the bowl with a spoon, trying to eat every last bit of the deliciously sweet cake mixture.   

It wasn’t until many years later, when talking to my mum as an adult did I realise why she gave me marmalade on crackers. 

     “Money was really tight back then, and we were very poor, sometimes there was nothing else in the cupboards but marmalade, jam, bread or crackers,” she told me one day.

     “It was just you and me for years after your dad left, and we had to get by on what little we had.  Sometimes when money was really tight, I wouldn’t eat at all, letting you; the growing boy - have whatever was left in the cupboard.”

I don’t know what me and mum talked about back then, in the kitchen at Heston Grange, as it was way too long ago, but what I don’t remember, is ever being hungry.  It just seems to be a pleasant food snapshot in time, stuck in my memory - hopefully forever.    

 

#BAD11

100 Words: Clapham Junction

[This "99 Words" was penned whilst I was waiting for a train at Clapham Junction Railway Station. I scribbled it into a notebook; turned the page and forgot about it, unaware that just a few months later, it's sentiments would come back to haunt me.]

The blocks of flats, that stand opposite Clapham Junction are ugly. Made from grey concrete, and brown 1960s pebbledash, with just a dash of cancer; they look like a sick persons shit. The dirty yellow net curtains of the poor under-classes, hang in the hundreds of un-cleaned windows. If anyone I loved, lived there, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Sleep would not come to find me at night. Food would taste foul; drink rancid. If I couldn’t help them get away to somewhere else, what would be the point of me, or my love for them? 

World Mental Health Day 2011 - Depression

[As my contribution to World Mental Health Day 2011, I hope you don’t mind if I repost this re-edited version of a piece I did back in July 2010, which was about the very unsexy subject of depression.  I’ve recently seen in the media, some commentators suggesting that manic depression, and bi-polar disorder are actually “designer mental health issues” that suffers enjoy talking about at parties.  I can say through my experiences that at no stage did I ever feel like talking about it to anyone, let alone in public, and never ever did it feel very “designer” or cool.  For a long time I felt like a freak, and still – even now - feel embarrassed to talk about it.  It seems to me, slightly dangerous, and backward to go down a path where suffers are ridiculed as attention seekers, just as society had started to talk openly about mental health issues.  Having said that; I still have reservations about posting this publically onto this blog, where people I know might read it, which possibly gives an example of how ashamed suffers really can be.]

Depression.

It’s not hard to imagine that a few of the lovely readers who keep returning back here, have just seen the title of this post, and instantly clicked onto another blog. 

I don’t blame them; it’s hardly a very sexy subject is it? 

It conjures up images of a miserable scruffy individual, who lives in a bedsitter and spends his days listening to ‘Love will tear us apart’ by the Joy Division.  Maybe he looks like Neil from ‘The Young Ones’?

I hadn’t realised until late last year that I had been suffering from depression for most of my life, even though I had always known, that I had these terribly dark melancholy moments.  Even when I was a teenager, and my whole life was still in front of me, I would withdraw, and hideaway from the wider world.  Sounds about normal for a teenager perhaps, but I also had a thing about running away from home, which to be fair, still crossed my mind until not that long ago.  I would regularly think about packing a bag and walking out the door. 

Draw as much out of the bank as possible, go to the airport and fly away. 

Don’t worry about the consequences; just get away from the problems that are here and now. 

Don’t worry about what happens when the money runs out.  And definitely push from your mind the people who care about "you," which you’re leaving behind...

As I got older these black periods came along maybe 2 or 3 times a year, when I would feel so very low.  And when I say low I don’t mean "that Monday morning feeling," - rather that I’d see nothing good in anything at all.  I would gradually withdraw until I barely spoke to anyone for 7 to 10 days.

I used to wonder what would happen if I died. 

I would imagine people at my funeral and who would turn up.  What music would they play?  And when I was at my absolute lowest I would image that no one would turn up because no one cared.  

But the spell would eventually break, and I would return to my normal self.  I could even feel my black dog leaving.  I would be sitting on the edge of the bed one morning, after a bout of despair and know, that for no reason in the world, that I felt better.  A week ago I could be in the midst of depression:  Today everything in the world is rosy.  I thought of myself as generally content and happy most of the time, with occasional bouts when I would be a miserable git.  It was no big problem for me, but it was probably hell for those who cared about me.  My ex-wife used to call them my "Quiet times" and during them she would just ignore me until I came through the other side.  It must have been so very hard for her. 

Life for me carried on like this until autumn last year,  when after a series of black periods- which struck one after the other in viciously quick succession – I was left at rock bottom.  After problems at work one day I found myself squatting on a cardboard box in a little used part of the building that I work in.  The box had sunk into a "U" shape where I had spent so much time sitting on it.  The huge space on the top floor was silent apart from a giant fan slowly whirring in the grey ceiling.  Above me in the dimly lit room was a beam just out of reach; but not if I stood on a few boxes.  Surrounded by the pointless messages of marketing material offering "free this" and "free that," I thought about ending it.  A blue nylon rope lay untidily on a shelf like an offer to a way out.  I must have sat staring at it for hours.  I know I cried like never before and never since.  This was it; the moment was there, on offer to me.  This would teach them.  They would find me after a few days, hanging and stinking the place out. 

I think the Black dog had, that afternoon won control, and I’ll never know for sure if I would have gone through with it, but I can tell you this:  If the devil had appeared in that room and offered to sling that blue rope over the dusty beam for me, and maybe just slip the noose over my head, and then kick away the pile of boxes that I was standing on?  Well I think I would 
have taken him up on the offer.

My girlfriend was the person who decided that maybe I was suffering from depression.  She had painfully watched, and lived with me through some dark days and realised that something other than the blues was to blame.  So I wrote down the symptoms that I suffered from, and waited a few days to go and see my doctor.  Had I not have just come out of a black period, I would never have gone to see my doctor then, I would have found a way to put the visit off. 

Shortly after the doctors; it came that one afternoon, I found myself sitting talking to a couple of psychiatrists, and at that moment, I knew how bad I had been for so many years.

I’ve been very lucky with my medication as the first thing I tried worked.  All those years suffering from sorrow of the soul, banished by a simple pill.  How I wish I’d known before. 

The depression is still inside me somewhere, because I can still feel it occasionally.  I’m struggling to try to find the words to describe it, but try this and see if it makes sense:   

I’ll have a worry on my mind or a bad day at work.  Over a few days, things will start to get to me.  Before the medication, I would gradually start to tip over the edge.  But now there seems to be a block that stops me from going into a severe depression.  I can almost physically feel it and at times I even resent it - how dare it stop me from sliding downward.  Whatever the problem is, just never gets that big, and I get round it somehow, or I just don’t worry about it so much.  I just don’t get that low anymore, or can’t.  It’s altered my character and the very foundation of the way I feel about life and most importantly, myself. 

Without trying to sound cheap, if you feel the same, my "advice”  is to “get some advice.”  Everyone I spoke to, from the doctor onwards, was nothing but kind and caring.  At no stage have I ever felt like a freak, apart from maybe just in my mind.  It’s only recently that I’ve realised how many people suffer from, or have suffered from depression at some stage of their life.  It would have help me immensely to know that first; something was actually wrong with me, and secondly that I wasn’t the only person on the planet who felt that way. 

[In the course of re-editing this blog post about depression I found an excellent website with tons of great, really useful information called storied mind.  If you think you need to, please have a look at it because it contains lots of really useful information:]

99 Words: The pebble

The man turns the smooth brown pebble, over and over between his fingers. 

It helps him to think while he sits at his desk. 

The pebble he found outside, in a carpet of gravel; is barely an inch long, by half an inch wide, and has two notches in one side.  He likes to think that the notches are ancient and old.   

He is right.  The pebble is older than he can ever imagine, and will outlast him by millennia.

If the pebble could communicate with him, it would say, “Please stop touching me up, and put me back outside.”

Retail shock therapy

Invited to an old friends wedding at the end of this week, I found myself the other day, getting up early to go out shopping for new clothes.  I had already searched through my wardrobe, and declared, with the back of my hand on my forehead, to “not have a single stitch to wear,” before throwing myself onto the bed and weeping.  And its not that I’m trying to make it sound more dramatic – I actually don’t have any clothes to wear to a wedding.  Everything I have is either casual; verging on the homeless persons look, or very professional looking white shirts and grey trousers for the office.  So with my girlfriend Lou B, who is also my trusty shopping side kick, off I went into the jungle that is the high street.

Our first stop on the shopping extravaganza was the local town of Guildford.  For readers of this blog who reside in other countries I feel I should explain that Guildford is a much more affluent town, than my own of Farnborough.  It’s in the “stock broker belt” of Surrey, where rich banker types can live out of town, but still only be 30 minutes from central London.  This view was reaffirmed for me while I was sitting with Lou B having an early coffee; when I spotted an empty bottle of Moet Champagne standing on the pavement outside.  In my own town of Farnborough, that would be a crushed can of Stella Artois. 

We were also in Guildford because my eldest daughter Ann, had asked me to get her a particular type of handbag for her birthday, which is also later this week. Guildford seems to be one of those towns that has retained its traditional high street charm, with a mix of large well known shops, and little independent retailers.  So many high streets in the UK have now disappeared; turned into characterless “centres or malls,” full of empty boarded up units that no one can afford to rent, fast food shops, or even worse – pound shops.  After we had finished our coffees, we marched off to “Pauls Boutique” which has a concession in one of the big department stores, to look for the handbag Ann had asked for. 

Now I just don’t get girls and handbags.  Why do you need to have so many types, so many colours?  There simply cannot be that many situations in life that require so many bags! 

There was such an array of brightly coloured bags in various sizes that I had trouble choosing.  Should I get a bucket bag, a hobo bag or a barrel bag: and what is a hobo bag anyway? What colour?  Should it be in leopard or zebra print?  Time was ticking away on our two hour “free parking” spot.  I felt under pressure to make a choice.  The bright department store lights were shinning on me, while stuffy assistants watched, half hidden, from behind large counters.  I hate that moment when you are shopping for someone else; when you are not totally 100% sure that it’s the correct item for them.  I finally chose a black bag, and we rushed back to the car, me with a large florescent pink House of Frasier bag, flung over my shoulder.

Handbag purchased, we decided to head over to another local town called Camberley.  Now Camberley would like to think it’s in the same league as Guildford when it comes to affluence, but unfortunately for them, its not, as the reason for our visit there is because they have the cheapest clothes shop in the world:  Primark.

Any town that has the need for a Primarni, has to consider that maybe, its local demographic has an element of the Chav side.  Sorry, it has to be said – which I think I can say as I shop there myself.   

The first shop we headed for was H&M, where I was on the lookout for a pair of trousers.  I tried on a couple of pairs that Lou B kindly found for me, but just couldn’t get on with them.  I’m sure you know what I mean; the cuts not right or maybe the colour, or something doesn’t quite feel comfortable in the crotch area.  It’s worth noting at this point that I blatantly got chatted up by a gay guy whilst I was in there.  Lou B was browsing in the women’s section (and not helping me) on the other side of H&M, when the campest sounding guy ever asked me “Do you think this trilby suits me?”  The hat did suit him so I told him so - my GAYDAR on full alert – as we chatted about the merits of wearing a trilby to prevent sunburn to the back of a mans neck.  I too have a trilby I explained to him, that I brought at Camden Market. 

After Lou B rescued me before this potentially embarrassing situation went any further, we went over to menswear shop that I have long thought of as too young for me: Top Man.  Don’t get me wrong, I like the clothes in Top Man, but the sizes are for little skinny teenagers.  Little people that grunt at you, and sulk in their bedrooms, before riding off on a BMX.  None the less, I found a pair of trousers in my size, and went off into the changing room which was little more than a broom cupboard with a mirror, and a bit of curtain.  I swear to you I’m a size 34 regular, and have been for years, but could I get these trousers on: could I hell.  They had somehow got stuck around my 42 year old thighs leaving me, crouched over like a shitting dog.  I tried to call Lou B to see if she could get me a bigger size, but no answer.  I called louder, but still no answer.  I then tried shouting for help, but still she didn’t reply.  I had in-fact detected a subtle change in Lou B when we first entered Top Man.  She had that washed out look on her face that you usually see in a man; when he is out shopping, especially a husband, or maybe even a zombie. 

Instantly I knew what was wrong and I couldn’t believe it...Lou B had hit the shopping wall.  I had thought that clothes shopping was in a woman’s DNA; I thought “girls” were born to shop?

My shopping partner was flagging, and it was looking as though I would have to leave her behind on the floor of Top man.   “Leave me behind in the carrot fit jeans isle, I’m only slowing you down,” I expected her to tell me.  She looked worn out, which wasn’t possible as we had only been out for five hours. 

 “Do you fancy a coffee?” I asked, recognising the look of imminent “shopping fatigue.”

     “No...no, I’m OK; let’s just get your trousers and go.” It was hard for me to believe, nay, near impossible to accept, but the fact was, I was out-shopping Lou B. 

We marched onwards to Pradamark through a now busy shopping centre for my final attempt at getting a pair of trousers to wear to Juliet and Jim’s wedding.  My reason for taking Lou B shopping with me was simply that you don’t have to keep leaving the changing room when something doesn’t fit.  When you have a shopping buddy you can just send them out, back to the shop-floor to get the next size up or down.  It’s OK for you girls, you can all go off shopping together, but what about us men?  We can’t go out clothes shopping with our man friends – it would just be wrong?  

Lou B was taking longer and longer to come back with each pair of trousers by now; at times I could sit down in the changing room and send a text between her visits.  Eventually after I found a pair that fitted, and in a good colour for an October wedding, I reluctantly left the crowds and headed for the car.  “Its not that I don’t like shopping, it’s just I’ve been running around the shops for the last six hours and I’m worn out,” announced Lou B as we drove back.

     “But I thought girls loved shopping.  Aren’t you all born to shop?”  I said sarcastically as I drove us home, weaving through the late afternoon traffic.

     “Yes we are, but I didn’t get to look at anything for me because I was running around for you.”

   “Oh, I see.  I thought you liked shopping with me, after all I’ve been for you loads of times –”

    “I do like shopping with you, but sometimes I need a break... for a coffee or something-“

      “But I offered to buy you a coffee-“

     “YES, but by then I was past it,” she replied, in a controlled way, with a slight hint of menace in her voice.

   “I’ve never known a man be as fussy about clothes as you -” she added, laughing, “You are just so gay.  You may actually be a real gay man in disguise.”

    “That’s not fair, I just needed your help, and you were flagging-“

     “Oh you wait till we next go shopping for me, and I get you running round.  I’ll give you flagging...”  

Needless to say I’m all kitted out for the wedding; new trousers and shirt.  Not quite what I was after, but there you go.  It might be that next time I need to do some retail therapy I’ll have to go with a man; Louie Spence perhaps?   

7 Days Of Blog #3

What I’ve always loved about the blogosphere is the contrasts. One minute you are reading about someone’s exciting trip to a hot distant place, and the next a sad tale of a lover’s betrayal. Well there’s lots of contrast in my three favourite posts from last week, which contain pieces from two bloggers that I’ve followed for years, and one that is brand new to me - that came by way of a recommendation.

Please enjoy reading their posts, and maybe leave a comment at on their blogs if you do.

Can’t live with’em, can’t live without’em – Diary of a dying girl

Jorah’s blog was only recently recommended to me, but I’m already hooked. She is cool without even trying and I love her style of blogging. I really enjoyed her post last week that was based in an airport as she waited for her boyfriend’s flight to land. After being hit on by various guys, she beautifully asks the question:

“It is an absolute mystery to me. I am virtually invisible for most of my life. People don’t look at me or notice me. I’m not fat and I’m not really skinny. I’m not extraordinary really. I’m just pretty common, and nice, and well, normal. But when a girl puts on red lipstick, a dress, high heels, and puts her hair up, it’s as if it’s a strobe light. Men automatically look me up and down when they pass. Not even if they’re interested. It’s a natural reaction. And I don’t get it. What is it about those things that draws men in? Any insight?”

I’m sure someone will have an answer or opinion on this question Jorah!

An artist’s impression – Bits and pieces

Joe who writes to “let off steam and hopefully make you smile,” blogged this lovely, but sad piece about a barman he knows called Ruben. There is a hint of betrayal in the air in Madeira, as Rubens girlfriend uses sex as a weapon. I don’t know about you, but I would be devastated if my girlfriend did this to me. Well observed Joe, I really enjoyed this.

Education is the best heritage - My Walkabout

I have been a long time fan of William’s blog and have always thought that if we lived near each other, rather than other sides of the world, we would be friends. His photos and video’s always make you feel as though you are actually there in some hot foreign place, and this post from last week is no exception. For anyone interested in travel – especially to Africa – this blog is a joy to read, and I can’t recommend it enough. Please drop by and pay William a visit.

100 Words: Fast food heaven

While a man stands on a windy platform, waiting for the 19:45 train to Basingstoke, he spots a grey pigeon; perched on a rusting metal railing.

Neither man nor pigeon move, as they both stare each other out.

“Why are you here?” the man mutters under his breath, “you could fly off right now, to somewhere really, really nice.”

But the pigeon can’t ever leave this place because he is the reincarnation of a railway commuter who died here.

...and plus, there’s a big piece of squashed pizza on the floor near the man’s foot...

...yummy.