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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.

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