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Friday, 31 March 2017

In which it's turned to dust...

Daylight snuck in through the charity shop curtains...

It wasn't one of those shafts of spring sunlight that carry dancing diamonds of dust within, it was an intrusive, dull thud of gloom announcing another day.

Anyway even if I'd been able to see the dust (there's yet another fecking scaffolding tower in the garden obscuring light) 'twould have been merely someone else's skin particles for me to inhale. Isn't that what 90% of dust is, Dear Reader, human skin particles?

Scaffolding shoots up around here with alarming regularity. As soon as the pink shoots of the paeonies peek through the soil you can bet your bottom dollar that a small, ugly gang of oiks will appear, take down the fence, mince up what's left of the lawn and erect another sodding tower.

Shame it wasn't a couple of weeks ago when One was looking for somewhere to hang Oneself by the neck until dead.

Yes, at last, suicidal gloom has faded away to be replaced by a fatalistic acceptance of abject misery and penury as I trudge toward the grave.

Off back to gainful employ on Monday. Not enough to pay the bills and eat. I'd like to see whoever came up with 'the living wage' actually exist on it.

I'd really rather like to just sit on the second hand sofa watching daytime TV and eat pies until I explode.

Thursday, 30 March 2017

In which one fails...

Yesterday, feeling relatively normal, pour moi anyway, I ventured into the galley to create a cake.

The Admiral and his carer were due one of his increasingly rare forays beyond the secure unit and were visiting for afternoon tea.

One, wishing to appear 'on it' googled Scary Cherry's Victoria Sandwich.

The receipt promised enough mixture for two seven inch cake tins. They lied, so I bunged in an extra egg and wanged the meagre mixture into a single tin.

Like a seasoned Bake Off contestant, I took up residence on the floor, next the oven, to watch it rise. (Tis entirely possible to see through the oven door since I discovered that evil potion that not only removes centuries of grime but three layers of epidermis.)

Any road up, it rose spectacularly in the centre and sported, what looked like suppurous boils all over, giving it the appearance of an over Sun-kissed tit.

Waiting for it to cool, I embarked upon the butter cream.
Unlike the cake mix quantity, there was enough butter cream to weld together the contents of Greggs front window display.

Slicing the top off the tit cake I slathered a goodly amount inside, with a bit of raspberry jam (mould scraped off) and plonked it on Nana's cake stand.

There was sufficient butter cream left to plug a hole in the back wall, satiate the sweet tooth of Chester the visiting cat, fill the cracks in the gable end and still have enough left to smother Lovely Gordon from head to toe, awaiting One licking it off at One's leisure.

Upon sight of the badly listing sponge, the Admiral guffawed. A foolish move in itself, but he carried on digging by opining...

'Cor blimey! Can you imagine what S's wife J would say if she saw that! She'd say: well, you tried, but leave the baking to me and you stick with the painting.'

Now, that is committing a Cardinal Sin, Dear Reader: defiling the culinary efforts of one's significant other in favour of those of the wife of a chum.

Having bitten One's tongue to the point of severance on many an occasion when the sainted J was imagined as Star Baker every week until that eventual crowning as winner, One was incandescent with rage.

One, making do with a bottom of the range Belling, housed in a cupboard, sans window or extractor fan, laughingly referred to as a 'kitchen' whilst One's nemesis has an Aga, a feck off enormous gas cooker, all housed in a huge farmhouse kitchen, does One's level best to conjure up culinary delights against all the odds.

Seething with resentment, One turned One's heliotrope hued face away and set about making a pot of tea.

The milk had gone sour and I'd forgotten to buy any tea...


Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Over the edge...

Boy visited on Mother's Day...

With him was his elderly amour and jolly contented they looked together.

Contentment. Now there's a thing. Not exactly 'happiness' (a state of which the young seem to view as a human right) but the deeper and more solid state of acceptance of one's lot with no urgent requirement for change.

A state to which One has never been elevated and to which now, is about as likely as One's appearance on the front cover of Vogue.

The closest One has ever been were those long ago, winter afternoons in Highgate, where One and Boy would sit quietly in front of the fire watching London fall silent beneath a covering of forgiving snow.

Now, we've all wandered off in different directions and news reaches me of the death of another of our Bohemian group.

One can't help but imagine our fiendish creator stifling a guffaw as he/she moves us about the giant chessboard of life: some pushed onto comfy sofas and others flicked over the edge...

Sunday, 26 March 2017

In which I venture forth...

Yesterday I dragged my chemically enhanced carcas onto the mean streets.
I chose early evening in the vain hope I would be able to perambulate hither and thither without encountering anyone who might make the innocent enquiry, 'how are you?'

Not that I ever reply anything other than, 'jolly fine', but I do look like a mad old bat, which, of course, I am.

And anyway, persons abroad do read this shite and therefore know that I speak with fork tongue.

However, isolation wasn't forthcoming and sidling down Silver Street, I chanced upon Lovely Gordon.
In one hand he carried a Fortnum and Mason grocery bag and in the other a worryingly, moist looking dog poop bag, tied with a perfect bow to which he clung.

Knowing he leads a hound-negative existence, I imagined he'd had another run-in with an indigenous article allowing her shit-machine to foul the pavement.

But no, finding Taunton Deane's refuse bins to be aesthetically displeasing, he opts to eschew their use and to transport, what turned out to be a bag of putrid broccoli spears, to the bin in Jubilee Gardens.

That's one sure thing about dear old Wivey: no matter how bonkers One becomes, One still has a chance of encountering a madder cove, on it's thoroughfares.

After sharing tales of retirement and care workers who turned out to be 'lady-boys' he strode off toward the Co op mumbling to himself.

'Oi!,' I heard him holler from ten paces. 'Have you heard the one about the man with five penises?'
'His underpants fit like a glove.'

Saturday, 18 March 2017

In which I'm climbing out...

Thanks to my chemical additives, I have, today, clawed my way to the perimeter of the deep black hole in which I've been residing these past weeks...

As long as the brutal jackboot of life doesn't stamp on my fingers , I shall be tentatively lifting my head above the parapet some time later today.

It won't be the head that's generally shown to the world so I'd shield your gaze, if I were you, Dear Reader. Personal grooming has gone down the lavatory of late and I resemble a gentleman of the road. (and very likely smell like one too.)

I say 'gentleman' advisedly since, as you know, Dear Reader the harvesting of super-floo-us hair is now a daily occurrence, or should be, in this case.

I do have a strimmer somewhere in the garden shed so as soon as the precipitation ceases I shall attend to my facial growth and macrame a couple of plant pot holders.

Blimey, I just re-read that last bit and it bordered on amusing. I must be on my way back.

Anyway, never shall I scoff at the depressed, or use that awful dismissive phrase, 'pull yourself together.'


I shall most certainly follow my 'carer' BF's advice...

'Don't stop taking the tablets until things have settled down.'

Ooooh, I feel a bit peckish...

Friday, 17 March 2017

In which I have added chemicals...

Today I shall be mostly trying to act like a normal human being...

There must be suitable gainful employment out there for a broken down old wreck like me.

I haven't eaten enough to keep a fruit fly alive for weeks, but since I have sufficient lard stores about my person to sustain me for months, maybe that's a good thing.

I'm finding it really difficult to accept that there are so many jobs I can no longer do.

Do most people deteriorate slowly, or do they just hit a brick wall like I have?  I don't know.

Living a hand to mouth existence as I have for all of my adult life I don't have the luxury of rainy day funds, but I'm not feeling in the least bit sorry for myself, nor am I bleating away on this diary for any other reason than to record events for my own perusal should things change, either for the better or worse.

I've certainly had an interesting life full of good friends and family.

Laughs are a bit thin on the ground at the moment, but, with my new chemical additives, I am starting to hope for a smidgen of titters in time.

Thursday, 16 March 2017

In which the obit is writ...

Slowly emerging from my current black hole...

I am really struggling with the logic of the person who misrepresented the last debacle in the workplace that I had to abandon.

What  earth was the point in giving an old crock like me a job masquerading as an 'activity organiser' when it was clearly a hands-on care job?

I really did try, too, but 'KNOW YOUR LIMITATIONS WOMAN' is a mantra I shall adhere to forthwith.

What on earth can I do next?

My current source of reference must be on something of a perpetual loop, for goodness sake.

One lesson I have learned, well, two, actually: I can't function without the discipline of full time employment, and I should never have left my job in care in Wivey, no matter how challenging it was.

Here lies One. She made poor decisions and stupid mistakes.

Wednesday, 15 March 2017

In which I am hopeful...

The only way is up...

Finally hit upon a medical solution to my ghastly problems, but the Doctor has been in therapy since my visit.

Have had to accept that there are some things that I can no longer do.

Had I adhered to the old adage 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' I may well have weathered the storm, but, well, Dear Reader, I didn't.

'There's no fool like an old fool' is another soubriquet I would have done well to heed, but having been a fool, young and old, I didn't.

What next?
Here's hoping!

Tuesday, 14 March 2017


Snap out of it.
Pull yourself together.

This has been a long time coming and while I still can, I'll document it so I remember.

Yesterday I sat in silence until it got dark outside.

Silent everywhere except inside my head.

Went to see a doctor, but I don't think pills will do it this time.

Stress, anxiety, panic attacks, severe depression and very high BP

Aged P wants me to go to her to recover. Can't do that.

'Take these tablets. We don't want you to have another stroke.'

Don't we? Would it make it stop?

Monday, 13 March 2017

In which it won't change a thing...

Here I am on another day. Shaking uncontrollably, dry mouthed, head ringing, heart pounding.

Will attempt to get through the day and try to get to see the doctor, who no doubt will pump me full of Prozac and offer a 'talking therapy'

Talking about it won't change anything. I'll still be unemployed, penniless and going out of my mind.

Sunday, 12 March 2017

In which I woke up again...

Good morrow, Dear Reader, are you enjoying your descent into madness with me?

Unfortunately I awoke this morning drenched in perspiration, heart pounding as if to burst from my chest and with the acrid stench of failure and despair playing around my nostrils.

What is happening to me? I haven't ventured from the underground lair for a week now and find myself spending entire days rocking back and forth on the second-hand sofa.

No use to man nor beast, I just sit here watching my thighs grow wider.

Where has that optimistic old trollope gone?
Will I wake up tomorrow and find her again?

The mind is a strange thing. I don't seem to have any control over mine at the moment.

I'm perfectly capable of obtaining employment.  After all I was offered both of the jobs I went for last month, but when it comes to actually doing them, well, we know what happened there, don't we.

So what happens now? I don't have a template for this.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

In which it's a death sentence...

And so, with being incapable of looking after myself, I can no longer care for others.
So, what next?
And will there be a next? With no income and nothing in the fridge.

I always wondered what a panic attack actually was. I've made many a comic reference to breathing into a brown paper bag in this little diary, and now I've had one myself I don't think I'll be quite so dismissive again.  Well, not unless I get my muddled mind sorted out soon.

I'm starting to wonder if there might be something else entirely going on though. After all I've dusted myself down and got on with it after hurtling in and out of many a scrape. I've lost my nerve and have developed shaking hands, which means that even if I could pull myself together and paint, I can't hold a brush.

I suppose it's fitting that I should be found decayed and nibbled by alsations, in the manner of Bridget Jones.

I feel such a fool that I couldn't do that last job, but it wasn't really an Activities post, it was just the same old, same old, hauling bodies about and I couldn't do it.

The only jobs around for people like me are in care and how do you do that when you're old?  I don't know.

This week a party of women born in the 1950's travelled to London from the West Country to protest at being deprived of many year's worth of pension payments since we now have to work an extra seven years at least.

For unskilled women like me who can only get care work, it is a death sentence, but maybe that's the plan.

Friday, 10 March 2017

In which I'm at it again...

I think today might be one of those constant blog days...

I simply have to write it all out of my system.  After all, it spares anyone from having to listen to me. You don't have to read it. Do you?

But I must write it.  If I don't tap it out the end of my gnarled, rheumatic digit it just runs as a constant narrative in my head...

Why did I do that when I should've done this, and all those unhelpful thoughts that clutter up the mind of a bonkers old woman.

Looking back over my life I can see the ridiculous situations I've gotten myself into.  Saying and doing things because that's how I thought others wanted me to be and never being true to myself.

That is true cowardice.

Living alone for too long and at too early an age with various intermittent and unsuitable liaisons to trickle in some human contact in an otherwise solitary existence.

It's not as if I can cite a dysfunctional childhood.  It was a bit fraught with warring parents and a very unstable Mother, but it's not an excuse for my completely ballsing everything up.

I've always taken the path of least resistance and dived into situations that have been short term fixes with absolutely no thought for the future.

That was fine before when I was young enough to keep starting again, but what of now?

It's as if I've just woken up to the fact that I'm not young anymore.  How stupid is that?


Too sick to even go to the doctor today...

I wish I could just die and get it over with.

I'm no use to anyone anymore.

I so envy people who are strong.  I think it's always been a false front that I've shown to the world, but depression is a non visible thing that strangles the life out of its sufferers in private.

And no, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, or that I haven't tried.  It's just been such a long hard pretence, that I'm worn out and now that I've grown old, I can't see a way out.

Along the way I've been met with extraordinary kindness. Much more kindness, in fact, than the opposite, so I've been fortunate.

This little diary has helped, but as I look back through it I can see the harm I've done to other people, so I must be reaping what I've sown.

I am judged and found wanting.

Thursday, 9 March 2017

In which its all a bit horrid...

Well, that's it, Dear Reader...

Going to hell in a hand cart. Do not pass go. Do not collect any wages.

Being physically unable to shift a 23 stone man single handed, crawl around on the floor securing wheelchairs, or jump down from a tailgate, One is once again without gainful employ.

'But you said it was an activity job?' I here you exclaim, Dear Reader.

Yes, I know, so did they, but it wasn't.

What next?

Hide under the duvet and wait for repossession, or death. Whichever comes first.

Tuesday, 7 March 2017

In which One is sick in bed...

Here I am, in bed, Dear Reader, having been sneezed at, snotted on and grabbed by a whole lot of aged persons carrying brand new strains of germs not familiar to One...

Every time I start work in a new environment I catch something in the first week or so.

I think the kindest thing, all round, would be to put a bullet through me head and be done with it.

I'm now so old that I'm looking after people who are younger than me.


Maybe I should just get a room...

Sunday, 5 March 2017

In which I can't get down. Or up...

Well then...
Have completed my first, employed, five day week since 1991.
Am well and truly cattle-trucked.  Have been dragging this flollopy, lard-encased carcass around for sixty years now and am spent.

Have discovered that my creaky old knees can no longer weight bear, following the two falls I had a while ago.

'Of course they can't bear your gargantuan mass!' I hear you exclaim, Dear Reader, and I would concur.

I didn't imagine, given my current job title, that I would be required to spend any time at all on my knees, but, there it is, Dear Reader, I am.

My delightful co-worker is a slender, young lovely, who is lithe in the extreme and very supple and bendy.

I am not. And I am on my knees. Or, I would be, if I could get down, let alone get up again!