Bank holiday blues

Bank holidays. One of those days automatically deducted in my annual leave calculation. A day for banking..or not, as the case may be.

Up early to a sky that briefly threatened rain and then passed overhead without depositing any of its contents upon my head.

Stood in the doorway. Would have listened to the birdsong but the constant tapping of a dog down the road rather spoilt the mood. Closed door but still unable to drown the constant yap yap yap!. No idea who the owner is but their selfishness in allowing this 24/7 aural assault, is noted.

Mood soured, I made coffee. Coffee soured because I forgot to put sweetener in it.

Into living room. Check ipad has charged. Amazingly I remembered to charge it overnight and even more remarkably I remembered to put the lead in the right socket to charge it!. Ha! Things are looking up.

Read the news in the forlorn hope that something good has happened. Hope dashed swiftly as it’s the usual Coronavirus stories interspaced with celebrity this and that, which interests me not one bit.

Check email. My ‘normal’ email are a mixture of un enticing offers and enticing ones, holidays to far off shores…distant shores, distant memories. The future? Perhaps.

My junk mail is more exciting!. Sadie (23) wants to show me her cat…apparently, whilst mature Diane (51) seeks toyboy…something in which I must disappoint her as I no longer qualify!. Once more I despair of my junk folder and the utter dross that infects it. No matter what filter, nor how many I use, the stuff seeps it’s way in.

Work computer on. Check work emails. Not a working day I know but I log on every day. Nothing exciting there.

Write for an hour. 1400 words done on a work that will never be published that is now several works long and needs editing and pruning and rewriting and adding to and changing and altering and throwing in the recycle bin!

Mood not improved.

I forget then what I’m doing next. An ADHD moment. Think I’ve taken my pills today but have to double check. Forget to drink coffee.

The usual restlessness creeps over me. Fibromyalgia pain is moderate today so there aren’t painful spikes to keep me awake or let me know I’m alive. Both pleasing and frustrating at the same time.

The day is now firmly upon us. Move several boxes from loft to landing, reaching the limit of my stamina but knowing that there are a hundred times more yet to be moved before they can do the work in the roof.

Another coffee. Yeah I forgot to drink it again!.

Sit on sofa, this ancient, creaking, breaking sofa that’s seen better days. Like me it’s decrepit and falling apart at the seams.

Dogs still barking and the road outside is busier. A general feeling of uselessness and the general low self-esteem and feeling I’m fat and ugly, wash over me and put down roots.

It’s going to be one of those days. Again. A blue day. A bank holiday blue day.

There’s never a break from feeling blue.

That elusive truth

There are times when you want to stand still and let the world do it’s own thing whilst you just sit there and let it all go on around you.

Times when you wish you could capture the moment, bottle it and, in your darker moments, let it out again so you could live the moment over and over again.

The truth is that such things are impossible, at least in reality and we are forced to play these elusive moments over in our minds in some desperate attempt at holding on to them.

The picture here is unremarkable. There are no discernible features, no great monuments, no splashes of vivid colour with which to attract the eyes. It is, at first glance, a dull scene of washed out greens in different shades interspersed with lighter rivulets.

It’s dawn. It’s dawn in India.

You can’t hear the birds in the trees above me nor the sound of the gardeners as they pass to and fro. You can’t smell the aromas from the dining room nor can you feel the warmth of the early sun as it touches my skin.

You can’t feel the peace within me as I stand in the garden of my hotel looking out across a vista of many colours now blanketed in the mist which that sun will burn away.

I close my eyes and let every sensation run through me. I inhale the smell of coffee from the room behind, the freshly cut grass from the dew covered lawn beneath my feet. I hear the birds as they turn on the warm currents high above and I hear the low tones of the gardeners and maids as they greet one another.

Sunlight bathes me. It wraps me in a cocoon of warmth and my skin feels alive at its touch. My scalp tingles as the heat intensifies and the dawn begins to break upon the morning.

A smile creeps across my face. I don’t need to open my eyes to see fir behind my eyelids I see the colours dancing and my mind already sees the colours that await my open eyed wonderment.

Fields of green and brown. White houses dotted across the landscape. Hills, still shrouded in dissipating mist, now emerging like giants through the haze. Roads that turn left and right, offering new places to explore, new opportunities for adventure.

I open my eyes to a new day, a day filled with promise. A promise to entertain, to excite and to both answer questions and prompt new ones.

The moment has gone. That elusive truth that you hold for just a second before it is lost to the passage of time.

It is gone but it will be replaced. Replaced by a thousand more moments, each elusive and yet each one lived in the fullest way possible.

It is a fleeting thing but it is mine. Mine to hold in my hand, in my heart and in my mind.

It is my truth, a truth long sought.

And in truth I was happy then. If only for a moment.

A jolly cricket tale

The batsman took a trouser splitting stride forward that instantly took the pace off the ball and it squirted out sideways from under his bat.

Indeed, if he had take a bigger stride he could have shaken the bowlers hand as he ran in!. The bowler himself, a rotund fellow with reddened face, mopped vigorously at his brow as the ball was returned to him and, with resolute stride, began the long march back to the start of his run up.

His captain turned and watched the retreating figure until it was a mere dot in the distance. Then it turned and with deliberate slowness began to walk back before breaking into a lumbering run that covered the last few yards. A swift turn of the shoulders and the ball was delivered inducing an edge that flew over slips head and ran away to the boundary.

“Ah, you’ll get him next time!” Was delivered in the Dorset burr but the bowler merely scowled and said nothing as he watched the ball pass from fielder to fielder until it was once again safe in his hands.

He started off again, his captains endorsement ringing in his ears.

He wandered in again and this time the ball eluded the bats edge and landed, with a heartening thud, in the wicket keepers gloves. Another scowl. Another “You’ll get him next time!”.

Wearily he mopped his brow as the cloud cover broke and the pretty little ground was bathed in warm sunshine. He glanced upwards and his scowl deepened for the change in conditions would not assist his bowling and he muttered something under his breath as his captain passed him the ball, eliciting a raised eyebrow and a gentle shrug of the younger mans shoulders.

In again. This time an edge and the fielder threw himself forward to cling on to the ball before it struck the emerald green turf. Howzat!?. Slip cordon and wicket keeper up in unison, all eyes upon the umpire.

“No ball!” Says he, arm outstretched. He says it again and the scorer sitting behind the boundary rope raises an ancient and withered hand in acknowledgment.

The bowler, eyes narrowed, turns and gives the umpire ‘the look’, the one that would make lesser men quake but the umpire is oblivious to such things as he chews ferociously upon a piece of gum. The bowler turns once more and stomps past the masticating judge, ‘the look’ increasing in intensity as he passes.

Ball once more in hand he glares down upon it as though this red orb, this inanimate object, is itself to blame. He takes it in his hand and rubs furiously at his trousers, endeavouring to keep shine upon the ball, all the while threatening to separate the fibres that hold his whites together, such is the fury of his rubbing.

Satisfied he gives a loud ‘harumph’ and trundles in again. The batsman takes an optimistic swing and the ball heads heavenwards. A dozen pairs of eyes look upwards and then down again as the poor unfortunate who is closest wanders too and fro beneath the rapidly descending ball.

The ball lands. Hands grasp it but it slips out again as if it is alive. It squirms free and as though in slow motion, the grey haired gentleman thrusts out a hand, more in hope than expectation and the ball bounces off his wrist to land with the echoing thunder of doom, at his feet.

Bowler, face as red as the ball he has bowled, gazes steadily at the man who has dropped his prize. The umpire signals over and the fielding team, heads bowed, move to their appointed positions. The captain, no doubt young and full of optimism, puts a friendly hand upon his bowlers shoulder, “You’ll get him next time!” He days with a friendly squeeze.

The bowlers reply is unrepeatable.

“Careful” warns the umpire, “there are children here”. The bowler looks around him at the watching ‘crowd’, the ancient scorer, two elderly gentlemen walking their dogs and a young mother with a child, no more than two, toddling along the boundary rope.

He turns back to the umpire and with withering glare says, “Aye, and he’d have caught the bugger!”.

Trials and Tribulations


Lockdown has been, they say, good for reflecting on the past and thinking about the future.

My ADHD/Autism lockdown has been a rollercoaster of lows and very lows during which reflecting has only made things worse when one realises what an extraordinary botch one has made of life.

I’ve lurched, sometimes physically as Fibromyalgia can be a real nasty piece of work and throw balls of fire at you when you least want it, from moderate crisis to confused crisis to why am I even here crisis to shall I stop now crisis to end it all crisis to ‘Save me from these people!’ crisis to ‘stop the world’ crisis to ‘Damn it, we’ve run out of biscuits!’ crisis, often all in the same day!.

I have existed. I can’t say I’ve lived because I’m sure that many people share my view that the last few months haven’t been fit for living but more a case of survival of the fittest. Or unfittest. Or luckiest. or rule followers.

If this ‘space’ was supposed to give me time to think then ADHD, with it’s beautifully scatterbrained approach to life, has wrecked that. A million thoughts collide in my head and then splinter off into a million more, none of which hit the intended target. I start with the best of intentions and end with a crisis of confidence.

Plan ahead say the mental health bods. For what? I reply. I want to but then I’m lost again, struggling to cope with today’s demons and the ghosts of the past. Trying to find my way through the woods when I can’t see the woods for the trees.

The dream is real enough. The house. The dog. The space. A sleep perchance to dream. But reality is torn between desire and that same reality.

Money for A but if I have A then there’s no B. So I’ll take B but if I do then I can’t have A. And C is the compromise that suits nobody.

It’s hard to step back without falling off the cliff. Hard to get a sense of perspective when your lens keeps fogging. Hard to take control when someone’s taken the batteries out and hidden them.

It’s hard to reflect when each reflection is disturbed by the pebble in the pond and each ripple on the water pushes you further away from that island of calm.

Yes I’ll come out of this; this period of strangeness but I’m not sure I’ll come out wiser or better or with a deeper understanding of where I’m going. I didn’t know before but now this disruption to my most basic routines has muddied the waters even further. New routines have fallen away in a clattering muddle of brain jenga.

I’ll be certain of only one thing, that I’m even more certain how uncertain I am.

How disconcerting.

The road to nowhere

Bad night. Nightmare left me too scared to go back to sleep, or whatever passes for sleep in these parts.

Landlords wanting major works done to flat, roof properly insulated, central heating put in…a new front door that doesn’t warp and admit the rain would also be appreciated.

I live in fear of these times. They get their relatives in to do a cack handed job and they have to keep returning to correct the errors they’ve made. Our roof still leaks after three attempts to fix it.

Unsurprisingly the flat failed the minimum EPC rating. An old barn, worn out and dilapidated, showing its age. A bit like it’s occupants.

Our millionaire landlords baulking at the cost of work done as though they can’t afford it galls me beyond measure. They own half the town and this flat we …exist in…is one of four or five properties they own. I often wonder about the upkeep of the others.

Our neighbours not happy. His flat passed its EPC assessment. Even the landlord expressed amazement, with a wry chuckle at getting out of any unnecessary expenditure downstairs.

Work means upheaval, disruption, abandonment of routine. Noise, chaos and people traipsing in and out. It also means moving everything out of the crowded roof space…when it’s up there for the sole reason that we have no space in which to put it!. My fibromyalgia wracked body already protests at the forthcoming misery.

On the road to nowhere. Torn between here and there. Waiting on others (and a rent increase) and not knowing what to do for the best. Stay?. Go?. Always agonising over a dream so elusive and a reality so painful.

On the road to nowhere.

It seems I’ve walked this way before.

Hearing nothing

There’s a whispering wind a-blowing

But I cannot hear the words,

I’m torn between the wisest ones,

And dubious absurds,

The wind it swirls around my feet,

Raises leaves from dead,

It’s call is lost in flurries dance,

The struggles inside my head,

Those words I heard, so indistinct,

So swiftly blown away,

Cast adrift amidst the storm,

I wonder what they say,

Perhaps they’re never meant for me,

Another’s ears will hear,

And comprehend the mystery,

Whilst I recoil in fear,

A fear of never knowing,

Or a fear I’ll know too much,

Distorted view, castrated mind,

Amputee without a crutch,

Imploding once, exploding out,

The turmoil in my thoughts,

Turbulence wrecks inner calm,

Shipwrecked all for naught,

Abandoned, immolated,

Fiery thoughts in train,

Words I hear, words I fear,

Or none,

I am insane.

The Fractured Man

I’m the man who doesn’t know,

His future or his past,

Lost in dreams or fantasy,

Where truth, it does not last,

Yet what is truth,


What is real,

Or not,

Has all my life been mystery,

Can I join dot with dot,

The brooding haze,

The mists of time,

They dull my senses, weak,

And from a mouth that once was sure,

Who’s truth do I now speak?,

Did I act or move or say,

In ways that once seemed true,

But now my memory plays tricks,

Am I me or you?

Identity now ripped apart,

Leaves naught but hollow shell,

The fractured man, in pieces lies,

Amidst his private hell.

The returning blog blog

It will be interesting to see how many people read this. Yes I know they say they do but those that say that are not supported by the statistics.

Something to do with lies and damned statistics…or something…springs to mind. Slowly.

So here we are again.

It’s been 4 weeks. Nothing’s changed in the sense that I’m still here and still enduring no end of trials (getting two new pairs of glasses and finding that both pairs aren’t right is a bit much even by my opticians standards).

Been referred to neurologist. Head pain in right temple increasing. Lots of nerve pain in upper jaw and behind ear. Usual stuff. Inconvenient and dragging.

Not looked after myself at all. Diets a diabetic free for all but I have lost all sense of self worth and have no focus on the bigger picture. I mean well but do badly. I start strong but end weak..even week, looking weak.

Works still work. One arm forced behind my back to take some leave. A week in September and another in October. I’m losing ten days I’m entitled to but there’s nowhere to run so why bother. Still logging on every single day, still giving my all, still nobody gives a damn if I do or don’t.

Office might be reopening but given the way it closed, hastily and poorly planned, I’m not going back. I’ll give them time to work it all out before venturing forth. They won’t miss me.

Partners been ill. Have had to refer her to doctors and get her daughter to put the pressure on. Partially grief and partially poor self care. No exercise at all. Sadly it catches up with people.

Nothing much else to say…or, put another way, there might be but it’s not worth writing when nobody reads it. Like many things I started this blog with good intentions and for some periods wrote consistently and at times, passably.

And then you read another bog, another poem, and you realise you aren’t any good at either of those (to add to the list of things you’re rubbish at!) and here you are having written 3/4 novels of about 330K words in total, and they’re rubbish as well.

I won’t bore anyone who reads this anymore. Perhaps I will blog again one day…I probably have holiday reminiscing still to do..

And perhaps I won’t.

Perhaps the words really have dried up.