It always seems like such a good idea at the time. The merest hint of a good day and I go into 'take up your mat and walk' mode and decide, for the umpteenth time that I'm cured and should run a marathon. In half an hour, back to front and walking on my hands. Ah self delusion. It's a wonderful thing. More powerful even than chocolate.
Suitably deluded, stoned medicated, braced and with a requisite minimum of three trips to the loo before leaving the house I plugged in my headphones and stumbled off. It was like crip city out there. Perhaps we all emerge on a Wednesday afternoon responding to some hidden signal like er, the adipose or pajama clad chavs foraging for breakfast at closing time in corner shops. People with crutches and sticks were in abundant supply, the odd mark of privilege mobility scooter whizzed past and an attractive young woman deep in conversation with her boyfriend pushed herself along in what could only be an NHS provided wheelchair as it was far too heavy for her to manoeuvre. After wobbling at the side of the road whilst I waited for a gap in the traffic sufficient to allow me to stagger across I was grateful for the woman sat in her car waiting patiently whilst first the young girl pushed herself across then I took twice that time to weave and wobble across her drive.
My bright idea? After forgetting my pin number last week, the week beforeI forget when, causing the bank to lock my card, and yes, of course. I forgot that too. Anyway after lots of forgetfulness and no little embarrassment I needed to unlock my pin number at a cash point. As my patented theory of calories not counting if you can't remember consuming them could do with some work I figured the walk would mean I could comfortably forget tonight's chocolate as well as last night's.
I was right. It hurt. Whilst I'm on the subject I'd like to ask my elbow why it thought dislocating was an appropriate response to it's neighbour, my wrist dislocating? Inside it's specially constructed for me standard issue so it doesn't fit NHS wrist brace.
When I got to the cash point I was, to be blunt, fucked. Karmic revenge for the injuries I recently inflicted on the captain I suspect. The plan had been to sit down with a coffee/chocolate concoction and rest up with a broadsheet for a while in the cafe over the road from the cash point. Which was foiled by the cafe being closed. Apparently they'd been so busy they didn't have any clean dishes left!
As I'm getting really good acquainted with the concept of 'asking for help' I asked the cafe owner if they would mind if I just sat down at one of the outside tables for a few moments. I probably looked as I was feeling for within a minute a mug of tea was brought out to me. Though it offends me to be so cliched these sorts of everyday acts of kindness never fail to remind me how nice most people are when given the chance to be.
Later, I came home...and dropped my neighbour's 10 week old puppy. On it's head. Onto concrete. I suspect that kitty #2 vomiting all over the floor was her way of expressing disapproval. The puppy was too traumatised to think of that...or maybe it was just p'd off it had been dropped on it's head instead of the milk it had expected to receive by chewing on my breast.
So now...not only am I a penis breaker, I'm a dog crippler too.
These days we are all so used to hearing about the 'evil addicts' ruining our society it's easy to forget that each one is a person behind their addiction. These twoposts written by MsO beautifully illustrate the impacts of addiction upon loved ones.
This is an interesting, if somewhat naive post about the process of claiming Job Seekers Allowance by Peter Cranie.
Likening the actions of a tabloid newspaper to that of a convicted paedophile is bizarre enough, but to say that a tabloid newspaper does more harm to others...well, it's a view point I suppose.
Perhaps the author would like to be forcibly buggered from the age of, ooh, I dunno, lets say 6, every week by their daddy/stepdaddy/next door neighbour. Make sure no-one intervenes, and everyone feigns equal ignorance 10 years later when the truth comes out. Then they might, just might be in a position to claim The Sun has done more damage than a convicted sex offender. But I rather suspect they'd be too busy trying to rebuild their shattered life than to make such ridiculously stupid sentiments. Even in Liverpool.
As I'm on a roll here...every time the BBC report on this issue they play one of Gary Glitter's 'hits' in the background, ironically on one occasion reporting how much Glitter earns a year in foreign royalties. I just hope that our licence money is not being used to pay royalties for this.
Sticky topped glass bottles. Forever linked in my mind with the excitement and guilt of forbidden treats. Delivered by the milkman in green or blue crates, stored in the cool garage waiting for grandchildren to devour in a hyperactive orgy of sugar and additives, heralded by the longed for chink as the bottles clinked together.
He was the closest I had to a grandfather. My great uncle, married to my grandmother's younger sister. Even now, decades later when I see glass bottles of orange juice I think of him. All those years of birthday and Christmas cards with a crisp note tucked inside.
He was quite the catch as a young man, tall and handsome in his RAF uniform. Later a career in the bank would provide a comfortable lifestyle but things would never be easy.
There was a baby. Perhaps the first, perhaps not. Born too soon to survive in an attic bedroom more able to keep secrets than the people it housed. Mad with grief she hid the baby, and when discovered refused to let go. So in the end they took part of her brain to make her.
He was always there. Through years of institutions and barbaric abuse masquerading as medicine. He cared for the children they went on to have, for the sister in law fleeing her abusive husband. For her children. Somewhere along the way she fell in love with him too and perhaps he her. But he always stayed. Always cared.
