Tuesday 18th September 2018 - Fatigue

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Four days since my last entry. Lax and undisciplined am I.

Feeling crushed by tiredness, I've become a bit of a zombie and have achieved zero recently, with crafting on hold and inspiration in short supply.

The socio-economic implications inherent in developing a new political system are vexing me. Unable to concentrate, I try to plant the broad notion into my sub-conscious before sleep, hoping it will do all the work the conscious me cannot. No joy so far. If a basic framework, at least, would evolve I'm certain that the fleshing out would come relatively easily. I'd like to take the ideas and either produce a work of fiction or my own grand manifesto.

Through the living room window, from where I sit,  my view is limited to the copper beech in the garden opposite, It shakes violently in short bursts, limbs akimbo in the blustery wind. There's still warmth in the sun, so much in fact that when combined with high humidity yesterday it became uncomfortable in the afternoon. Still, the last hurrah of Summer is to be savoured. We'll miss it when it's gone.

Friday 14th September 2018 - Autumn is Coming

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

The gradual descent into Winter seems tangible.

Today, even sitting in the garden, in full sun, requires a second layer of top clothing to ensure comfort, particularly when the breeze is blowing in from the North or East.

Small birds, tits and robins mostly, are frequenting the feeders again, to the annoyance of the pigeons who have held a virtual monopoly on the easy pickings since the start of Summer. The number of visitors has swollen noticeably, no doubt helped by a good crop of returning fledglings from the Spring matings.

The days are shortening quickly now as the Autumn Equinox approaches so post-dinner sojourns outdoors have ended.

Leaves and fruits drop from trees who've seen it all before, as they draw in their energy and rest beneath bark blankets.

Some welcome and embrace the new season; the jam makers, the game hunters, the football and rugby enthusiasts and the Christmas fanatics. I curse the faint light, the biting cold, the interminable wind and the spiteful precipitation. At least the beach will empty of holidaymakers now, traffic will move freely and there are those hot, slow-cooked dinners to look forward to.

Hoodie's on and I've moved to the garden to write. Dark clouds are rolling across what was a clear sky earlier and it's decidedly chilly. Stormy weather is forecast for the weekend and I fear we've lost the sun for a few days now.

I quite look forward to Fridays, the last day of the working week for most, even though I'm not 'employed' currently and may never be again. They do, I suppose, provide respite from the creditor 'phone calls and there are none on Sunday so my heart can tick with a more natural rhythm and the throat knots and stomach churns will abate somewhat.

As I consider the past week, I feel that matrimonial relations have improved slightly and I've returned to writing after a hiatus. Blog posts have been added retrospectively and links to these no-holds-barred musings have been posted on Twitter, where I'm active again in the #sixwordstory camp. There are more entries to copy to the blog and I'm chastising myself for committing yet more words to paper here but it just feels more natural and personal to use pen and paper.

In other productivity news, Wednesday's woodwork was missed through migraine but a brief willow weaving session garnered another bullrush for the garden.

Just added another couple of days' diary to the blog and was pleased to note that I only had one week left to transcribe. Unfortunately, it appears to be the most fertile week to date. Ah well ! Onwards and upwards.

Been pondering my synopsis that citizenship ought to be an option rather than an obligation. I've done some brainstorming and mind-mapping and it's fraught lwith issues and contradictions. I'm not sure if this is due to the limitations of intellect, a lifetime of indoctrination into the norms of the system or it's just an unworkable idea. I will return to this and write a blog post in due course (I think!). I should maybe research Engels and Marx and see how long it took them to write Das Kapital for reassurance, maybe.

I guess a forum to discuss 'ideas' of any nature would be useful. Maybe one exists already. If it doesn't I already have a name for a collaborative thought site: "THINGK TANGK".

Tuesday 11th September 2018 - Musings on Genius

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

There are those that walk or have walked amongst us to make mere mortals feel wholly inadequate.

I am certain that I could acquaint myself with many more if I could stand the mental torment but amongst those whose paths I've come across and who spring readily to mind include authors and broadcasters Stephen Fry and Clive James and scientists Richard Feynman and Stephen Hawking. S.F. and C.J. have had careers that span my mature life and I count myself fortunate to have followed the meat of both careers. S.H. obviously achieved popular fame with A Brief History of Time, an accessable but still difficult quantum physics introduction.

R.F. on the other hand was the subject of a Horizon (I think) programme a couple of years before his early demise which I happened upon by accident as a TV repeat or on YouTube. I recall him explaining some complex theory or other in such plain english that it was impossible not to be able to follow the thought processes. However, by the time he'd reached the end of his monologue I couldn't for the life of me remember where he'd started or how we'd reached his conclusion. Maybe, it's because the minds of great thinkers are wired differently.

What, then, is genius and how do those so endowed deal with it? I mean, how do they suffer 6 billion fools, where does the mental stimulation keep coming from and how are they able to release the energy of ideas?

Suffering fools is the most difficult for me to comprehend. Maybe it's as simple as never having known any different and they have developed systems of behaviour and the thought processes to enable them to dumb-down for interaction with us mortals. Afflicted with a high I.Q. myself (but not the 170+ of these gods) I find myself socially awkward, easily bored and endlessly frustrated by the stupid who seem to have been put in charge of everything.

The mental stimulation and release aspects are easier to fathom. They simply disseminate their original work through art, writing, lecturing and association with contemporaries.

How do we define genius? Da Vinci is universally held to fall into this category and it would be impossible to argue otherwise given the quantity and quality of work produced, much of which was years and even centuries ahead of it's time. But what of Van Gogh, an oft-called flawed genius? I beg to differ here. There is no evidence of the precociousness in youth generally associated with the label and frequently assigned to chess and musical maestros; Mozart springs immediately to mind and I've no doubt it applied equally to Kasparov, Fischer et al. Van Gogh on the other hand was a tortured soul , tortured by the folly of religious indoctrination whose focus became art and crutches were wine and women. It is easy to argue that he produced original and great art but this came from the intense focus of a damaged mind on a specific task - to paint what he felt.

But who am I to judge. I know I'm more Van Gogh than Feynman but without the focus or talent.

Monday 10th September 2018 - Alien State of Mind or Stephen Fry Saved My Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I've woken today in the strangest, most alien state that I've known for years, and I do not exaggerate. I'm not prone to hyperbole, it's another of my pet hates as when TV talking heads refer to 'everyone' talking about or watching something or another when it's bleeding obvious they're not.

I am awake, alert, 'alive' and feeling 'normal'. I've just been in the garden, sitting beneath the crabapple tree, smoking and feeling calm and relaxed. I know this can't last and may only afflict me in the nicest sense of the word for an hour or two but it gives me such an immense sense of relief that I feel I must sit here and retrace my recent steps, in a probably vain attempt to uncover the reason for it. What has happened and what might I have done differently to bring about this strange state of affairs. I have my suspicions but mujst examine and consider each possibility in turn to draw any firm conclusions.

1. Medication - Lifting myself from the sofa I can tell by a glance at the weekly pill folder that Sunday night's doses were duly imbibed. I did skip Friday's allocation when I couldn't gather the enthusiasm to raise a tired body and mind from the reclined to reach for them but we'll probably discount this as a causal link.

2. Social Interaction - Della and Stephen visited us yesterday, as usual and nothing out of the ordinary in terms of discussion or revelation transpired. So, we'll park this one, too.

3. Diet - As normal coffee and cigarettes only this morning and it's now 10:00am. Yesterday, I prepared the traditional Sunday bacon butty brunch and ate nothing further until dinner later in the day; breaded pollock, chips and peas. Normal. A bar of chocolate in the evening, a fake snickers from Aldi or Lidl. Normal. Around 21:30 I had an abnormal bowl of corn flakes laced with raisins, demerara sugar and semi-skimmed. Unlikely but worth trying again is it not?

4. Exercise & Fresh Air - no significant amount of either. Discounted.

5. Personal Achievement - nothing to write home about. A disgruntled customer found fault with a locomotive sold on Ebay. A bit of ping-pong correspondence and a partial refund led to a satisfactory conclusion for both parties and preserved my cherished 100% positive feedback rating.

6. Mental Stimulation - now, here I have made a noteworthy change. Over the past 3 days I have been devouring Stephen Fry, not literary (sic literally) but metaphorically speaking. Over 300 pages of The Liar avidly consumed at every opportunity, even reading by LED light jafter dark when the others have retired to bed for the night. Is it too fanciful to start believing that exercising the old grey matter and a bit of escapism can effect such a change in energy and disposition? Healthy mind, healthy body to reverse an overused phrase. Since it is mental health that is the bane of my life and my consumption of literature has been minimal for so many years, the argument for this has some logic and is indeed persuasive. Or, it could just be wishful thinking. Either way, I still think it's the best 50 pence ever spent in a charity shop. Guess it's time to get back to the Trefusis and Adrian road trip.

10:45

Rude awakening time. The palpitations have been reignited. The clank of the letterbox and the fluttering thud of mail on the doormat is the portent of more doom and gloom. Dianne retrieves the deliveryand dishes out a whole pile of love-letter circulars from the bank. I'm encouraged to open them but have neither the mental fortitude  nor financial means to deal with them. I promise to open them later as I don't wish to lose the good mood. I'm lying, of course. The fragile mood has already taken a knock and I have no intention of darkening it further.

[Writing this retrospectively allows me to confirm that corn flakes are not a wonder cure for depression]

Friday 7th September 2018 - Private School

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

As usual, I feel that I've been lax with my writing but I notice it's only been 4 days since my last update, which isn't so bad for me.

It seems to have been a busy week one way or another, despite not much evidence of progress being made. Events of Monday and Tuesday are currently consigned to the mind's recycle bin and can't be readily restored. The passing of time isn't likely to aid their recovery.

Wednesday, however, is memorable though not miraculous. I attended the Men's Shed and made good progress scraping the garden varnish and detritus from the solid pine coffee table I've been rejuvenating. Managed to get a bloody war wound when the glass scraper I was using slipped in my grasp and we took delivery of our shiny new lathe, just prior to my early exit at 13:00 to collect Dianne for our regular D.I.A.L. meeting. I helped with constructing the stand before leaving but missed the christening of the machine later in the afternoon. I look forward to having a play next week.

Just remembered that Monday was a meeting with my 'work coach', a pointless and humiliating chore inflicted by a callous government [Ouch! Did I really write this?]

Thursday was more interesting. I signed up for and attended the first of 8 weekly sessions at Community Roots (Wild Haven) entitled 'Producing [something or other]'. It's all about manufacturing crafts to sell under the chaharity's banner. Yesterday, we spent our time learning to weave dragonflies and corn stalks whikch were more akin to bullrushes in my humble opinion. I guess it was enjoyable to the extent that I met and interacted with people in a relaxed, non-judgemental and friendly environment. I will persevere with this and look forward to the woodworking elements in future weeks.

Totally exhausted when I got home, I still managed to write emails to the utility companies, half promising payment of the outstanding accounts in the next couple of weeks. This being subject, of course, to Dianne's P.I.P. claim being reinstated and a lump sum back payment arriving.

Today, I feel as though I should be in the workshop producing but innstead I've picked up Stephen Fry's debut novel The Liar and read the first chapter. Sourced this from a charity shop for fifty pence a few weeks ago and opening it for the first time this morning lfound what appears to be the remains of the previous owner's breakfast inside the front cover. At least that's what I hope it is!

Unsurprisingly, the setting (or at least the background) for the book is a public school, though a prologue to chapter one describes a murder in Mozart's house in Salzburg, a place I visited on my own one day during a family ski trip in 1990. The first chapter gives no inkling as to the connection and simply introduces a few characters.

Reading it made me realise that I would have thrived in this environment; maybe not academically as there would have been others far more well read than I but as a personalijty. I would have undoubtedly fallen in with the rebellious, subversive crowd more easily than with the swots but the ideas, attitudes and experiences gained could only have shaped me for the better. Notwithstanding, of course, the need to attain a decent level of academic success to satisfy the scholarship requirements. If only I'd have applied myself to the interviewas concertedly as I had the entrance exams and not been so pig-headed about honesty at an early age Imight have achieved so much more.

Still no sales on Etsy but another loco and a couple of poistcards have gone from Ebay.

I've just re-read Monday's entry and note that I'm repeating myself here to some extent. Sigh!!

Monday 3rd September - Melancholy

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Feeling desperately melancholic today, so I'm puting pen to paper in thee hope of exorcising the demons. It sometimes helps.

It's one of those days when I want to be left alone, in peace with my thoughts and able to well up or even cry if I feel like it.

The craft fayre plan has hit the rails. I suppose it was ineveitable that the cash flow trickle would dry up at some point. The cinch point came last week. First, an unexpected (foreseeable I suppose) direct debit from the Paypal account for the annual FlickR subscription left the balance barely sufficient to cover the Ebay fees for the month and then the realisation that the upfront costs of attending organised fayres were greater than expected. Most ask that proof of Public Liabilijty Insurance be carried. The cheapest quote I could find was for 60 quid.

On top of that I need another £100 or so to pay for 'essential' items in my Ebay basket; padded envelopes, bracelet blanks, rust paint etc.

On the positive side, the sale of one of the remaining locomotives this morning helps a little. I can meet the Ebay fees for the month. I guess if turnover in the next week or two picks up, some forward momentum might ensue.

Had a mandatory Job Centre appointment this morning for Universal Credit even though I'm not required to seek employment whilst I continue to provide fit notes.

Anglian Water are chasing outstanding bills via recorded nuisance calls and E.On have similarly sent text messsages.

We still await the restarted P.I.P. payments following Dianne's successful appeal against their being stopped late last year. Once they are confirmed a backdated lump sum should allow us to clear the utility bills and I'll be able to instigate a claim for carer's allowance. At that point finances should be somewhat stabilised and maybe we can move forward. However, I'm at breaking point in the meantime; sad, helplessand dwelling on the futility of mere existence without purpose or hope of a bright future.

Thursday 30th August 2018 - An Epiphany?

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

I suddenly realised something about myself recently that I find quite profound. Why had it not occured to me before?

Planning and goal setting, which Id always felt were weaknesses, in fact aren't. At least in so far as setting short-term objectives are concerned. The issue which afflicts me is what happens once a goal is achieved.

For example, I wanted to be a computer programmer. Despite being told that there was no route in, from the role I was undertaking at the time, I managed to work my way through tht system and was duly appointed. I wanted to own and operate my own business. Roll up carpet cleaning and antique dealing and forex trading.

All these achievements filled me with satisfaction. However, I quickly became disaffected when the reality of the mundane, repetitive nature of things set in. I'm a junkie in need of the next fix.

You see, I have to constantly be trying something new and different. It's not a case of the grass being greener on the other side, it's an aching need for constant stimulation. I have a boredom theshold that is infinitessimally small and I have to believe that this a personality disorder that is the bane of my life.

I've often remarked in the past how much I envied those that are average. Average I.Q., average ambition, average earnings, average outlook and world view. Then, life would be so much simpler. Work 9-5, pay the bills, live in an average house, drive an average car, take family holidays on the Costa del Sol, work 40 years, draw an average pension and die peacefully at 78, without ever being overly concerned about the state of the world, the meaning of life or any of my other hopeless preoccupations.

My I.Q. is a curse.

Tuesday 28th August 2018 - Waiting Room

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's surgery, the most appropriately named room in history; the wait is interminable. I wouldn't mind so much if it was a quiet and peaceful place but the..........[interrupted train of thought as I'm called to my appointment. ON TIME!! I'm sure it's never happened before].......constant chatter at reception, the harsh creak of distant doors, the old lady who wants the world to know her life story by way of uninterrupted reminiscences that surely denote a constant preoccupation with the past and the inane tripe uttered by the DJ introducing this season's latest banal , manufactured tripe with unfettered enthusiasm, the like of which is normally reserved for shopping channel hosts. I will try to read but with the mind working overtime on all the distractions I find myself at the end of a paragraph with no recollection of it's substance. A further skim read normally commits the words to memory but makes progress painfully and irritably slow, thus taking away the enjoyment.

The weather's moody today, being on the cusp of Autumn as we are. Consequently, the headaches are starting again so not too many words on paper today.

I'm now sitting in the car with a grass-covered dune for a view. I don't think I'll venture down to the beach today.

Friday 24th August - Jellyfish

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Went to the men's group on Monday. The 'Group' consisted of Mark the facilitator, Kevin and myself. Both Kevin and myself were first-timers so, in our absence, Mark would have spent 2 hours talking to himself.

We drank coffee and talked about random shit the whole time. So, naturally I was fidgety at times, not being one for small talk. I consider it a waste of time unless accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol (I'm practically teetotal these days) or other brain bending drugs. Still, it got me out of the house and interacting with other members of the human race. Don't know what Kevin's story was, nor he mine but as he was of similar age to me and reliant on a walking stick one can hypothesise that nature's spite or an accident have brought physical impediments that vex his mind.

There was mention of an organised fishing trip in the future, subject to interest and of guests attending the sessions to talk on various topics. I'll probably give it another go next month but wouldn't be at all surprised if I were the only attendee.

Whilst there I saw and spoke to Scotty, an acquaintance of mine and friend of Dianne's and introduced myself to Pinky. Dianne had described him as having a penchant for pink but "he's not gay" as if it mattered. I can concur with both statements. Turns out his real name is Dave, he's there every day, carves wood on Tuesdays and would be celebrating his birthday yesterday.

On Wednesday I discovered through a misdialled call from Scotty's partner that she'd managed to impale herself on barbed wire Tuesday night and ended up under the surgeon's knife to clean out some debris from the deep abdominal wound she'd sustained. She was back home yesterday, so Dianne visited with some of her favourite salmon pate and crusty bread.

As I had a couple of Ebay sales to mail, I ventured out this morning and made the customary trip to the beach. I wasn't there long as I couldn't be sure of the whereabouts of my mobile phone and it was causing me some unwarranted angst. It was either left at the Post Office or at home, either way in safe keeping. I walked fairly briskly one and a half breakers along the shore, finding a few interesting pebbles along the way and spotted a marooned jellyfish on the shingle bank. Another was found on my last visit. Until this week I don't recall ever seeing one at Caister. I imagine that this uncommonly warm summer we're having has raised sea temperatures sufficiently for them to migrate further North than is usual. I recollect as a child in 1977 (I think that was the heatwave summer and Elvis's last) swimming in the sea at Hunstanton and the waters were full of them.

On the way back to the car I managed to collect a couple of small pieces of driftwood that Dianne had requested for some kind of sea-art project she means to undertake. It also involves shells, twine and stones apparently. The mind boggles!

Been feeling quite off colour all week. I think a virus took hold last Saturday when my whole body felt tired and achy. These symptoms persisted for a couple of days and a bloodshot eye developed. The weeping eye remains and today I have the symptoms of a head cold with sneezing, a runny snout and that clawing irritation you get at the back of the nasal passage that extends down into the throat. Hate summer colds. Particularly this year as the glorious weather is just beginning to become unsettled, signalling it's intent to draw the curtain on the warm season and usher in Autumn. Want to enjoy what's left of it, please!

It's been a frustrating week generally. I don't feel as if I've moved forward at all and I'm probably correct. Looking at the positives, I suppose I've had some social interaction, added a few necklaces to Etsy, made contact with the Principal at First Move Furnishaid with a view to volunteering and....and....Oh! domestic relations have improved slightly and I've sent off a self-referral application to MIND that arrived in the mail a couple of days ago.

I know there was more to put down here but my mind has misplaced it for the time being. I'm sure when I was young I had total recall of events and thoughts which could be dragged out when needed. These days memory seems to be a skeleton of ideas and happenings, left thus to be filled with reasonable logic or guesswork. Or, maybe it's the conscious becoming tired and lazy and leaving all the hard work to the sub-conscious. [not sure this makes sense to me now]. My conscious would like to know the answer to this but the research would be a bit of a brainache and it really can't be bothered.

I ought to be writing this on my blog but I still prefer pen and paper. Perhaps I'll write the blog retrospectively.  If you're reading this online, the decision was made and acted upon.

Monday 20th August 2018 - Self Loathing

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Here we are at the start of another 'working' week.

Dianne rose early today (for her) at 7:10am; a time I dread. I like to have some personal time at the start of the day to organise my thoughts, in the same way I like some end of day time to relax.

The first thing that happens is the TV goes on for at least half an hour and I'm inflicted with garbage for the illijterate masses; either This Morning or a soap catch-up. How can anyone concentrate or relax with all those shouty people talking shit in your living room.

The shouting from the box is intermittently interrupted by the first frets of the day; "I hate flies. Why are they always around when you don't want them?"; "I had to pick a dead wasp up from the kitchen floor. Will they come back again next year?"; "Is it going to rain today?", like I'd know; "What's on your list?", meaning how are YOU going to bring some money into the house. Never have I heard her say that she has an idea for something that she could do to bring in some extra income.

Apparently, she's not going out today as she's "got jobs to do around the house". For the past week she's been 'tidying' her bedroom. You ought to see the results!

At the weekend, both Friday and Saturday, I tried to get intimate with her but was rebuffed on both occasions. No reson was forthcoming, though on Saturday I suspect the imminent TV event she'd mentioned on several occasions during the day was more important. Probably explains my bad mood. [I haven't tried since]

Our relationship isn't working. I feel so very lonely. Della didn't visit yesterday and I miss her and the respite the visits provide.

There's a once-a-month men's group meeting run by MIND at Wild Haven today and I'm thinking of giving it a go. I can only countenance the negatives sitting here; it will be a bunch of 'loonies'; I won't have anything to contribute; advice will be as useful as teaching your grandmother to suck eggs. I subscribe to the theory that you are who you associate with and I can't help but think that association with other melancholic individuals can only be detrimental. It certainly hasn't done Dianne any good these past few years.

Give me a cause to fight for, something useful and meaningful to do with my time, a reason to live for fuck's sake. How have I managed to waste 53 years of my life without a plan or a vision or the mental fortitude to push forward and achieve something? My frustration with myself is wholly justified and pretty overwhelming at times.

Fuck it! Think I'll give this group a try. You never know, do you!?

Sunday 19th August 2018 - The Meaning of Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

It always surprises me how much deep thought runs through my mind that I decide can wait until I put pen to paper.

Then, I sit here amongst the breaker rocks on Caister beach on an overcast but warm Sunday molrning and it's all gone. Not forgotten, just temporarily misplaced and waiting to be taken out again like a dust-covered book on a shelf. This should be reason enough to commit thoughts to the page in a more timely manner.

I'm sure I've mentioned before how disillusioned I have become with life in general. Whilst this has always been the case to some extent, I feel it's manifestation now informs everything I think and do. I know that my life has to be different to have any meaning or purpose and to expereience contentment, if not happiness...............

I just broke off writing for about half an hour. The normally slow ebb and flow of the tide had been taken over by a sense of urgency (maybe on account of the strong wind) and the shoreline laps that were 10 yards away when I began jotting were nearing my feet. Whilst I wasn't immediately in danger of an unwanted salt bath, the distraction was sufficient to cause me to move.

Thus, I proceeded along the shoreline for, perhaps, another 100 yards but unusually the sense of despair, frustration, restlessness and foreboding that normally dissipates on a beachcombing trip remained. A wander higher up the beach and a trudge back to the car through clawingly soft sand followed. The search for driftwood and flat stones to carve took me pakst numerous sand hills and circles of nondescript stones left behind by holidaymakers.

The random distribution of small, burnt timbers that are found in some abundance always surprises but probably shouldn't. Presumably, the washed-up remains of reclaimed beach fires. I romanticise about them being the remains of sea-borne funeral pyres, if romanticise is the right word...............

Anyhow, back to the theme I started with. The loss of control, privacy and self-determination in my life is increasingly difficult to deal with. Whilst I can declare that suicide is not the only option under consideration I'm finding homelife more claustraphobic by the day and am beginning to ponder life as a single man again. Whether that involves intentional community living, a home in the woods, roaming the country in an old Transit or some as yet unconsidered option I really have no idea. If I could convince Dianne of the merits of I.C.L. that would still be my preferred option but it appears to be the least likely outcome.

Yesterday, I presented myself at my first craft fayre. The compliments and words of encouragement were welcome and convince me of the merits of pursuing mixed media and jewellery making further. The hard work of the pakst few weeks was made particularly worthwhile by one patron's genuine surprise that such a professional looking stall was a first visit to a fayre.

Having just proof read today's musings I must confess to some disappointment at the brevity of it all. Three pages of an A5 notebook don't seem to amount to much and leave me well short of the stream of consciousness writing that I would hope to achieve in the long run. More practise needed!

I think maybe I should get back to writing my blog. A reader or two might help with another of my dreads, dying in anonymity. This is a strange thing to fear for a private, introverted individual but perhaps ties in with the desire to lead a more purposeful and meaningful existence. I don't know!?

June 18th 2018 A Low Point

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

The day started badly with a feeling of extreme exhaustion.

Every day starts exhausted but it's worse today. Though I tries to settle down for the night at around 11pm and woke at 00:20, 04:10 and for the final time at 07:15 this is a 'normal' sleep pattern, despite the nightly sleeping tablet. I put it down to the visit of my daughter yesterday, a very welcome visitor but always tiring.

I've been fretting over the weekend about today's visit to the doctor and anokther blood test. My kidneys ached on Saturday and I passed blood. My online research had indicated a worse-case scenario of bladder cancer (because of a previous episode a few weeks ago) or a best case of kidney stones. Either way it seemed inevitable that a referral to Urology would be forthcoming and this would mean invasive, uncomfortable and embarrassing tests.

Sure enough, having had a urine test a couple of weeks ago that was positive for elevated blood presence, she has referred me. I left another sample. Why she has not conlsidered the rare but known side-effect of haematuria for takers of Sertraline I have no idea.

Following the appointment I went to the Post Office for an overseas mailing, a bottle of milkand some tobacco. The debit card was declined for insufficient funds. Now what????

Straight to the beach I gandered to contemplate my options but the sun and heat proved too intense so I returned home.

I rang the doctors to book the appointment I should have made on the way out earlier and then Jobcentre Plus to find out the the results of my health assessment 5 weeks ago. I was told that this had resulted in a decision in my favour on June 7th but no benefit would be paid due to inadequate N.I. Contributions. Today just keeeps getting better!

My thoughts have returned to suicide and the methods I can face. A week's worth of Sertraline and sleepers might work but clinical intervention to treat the effects is likely to be sucessful. I'm now considering pitching a tent somewhere remote, without food or water and just letting nature take it's course.

Tuesday 30th January 2018 - Direction

The intent of this blog was to write about what I know about.

Since what I know most about is me, I had thought that it might become a diary or some kind of living biography. I'd probably pass comment on the weather & the day's propaganda feeds as well as my daily routine.

However, it seems to be going off at a tangent at present. My renewed enthusiasm for writing, as a distraction, has turned it into something of a scrapbook of randomness recently. Writing for the sake of writing? Yes. Why not? Site hits for my 'Inspiration' related musings are exponentially greater than those relating to my trials and tribulations. I guess we've all got our own issues, without burdening ourselves with those of strangers.

So, this blog needs to find some sense of direction and I'm unsure what that should be for now. As I remain unclear as to where I go personally in life. If I was merely undecided on these matters it would be a simple question of choice. Life's too bloody complicated!

Anyway, a bit of diary just for the record.

I've been prescribed Zopiclone & Sertraline. Three days in and the Zopiclone is working like a charm - wide awake at 03:45 this morning!!

It's not all negative, though. In many ways 3 to 4 a.m. is the day's happy hour. With such little human activity at this time, the peace and quiet has a meditative quality that provides space for uninterrupted thought. I enjoy writing at this hour, which is just as well since most other activity risks disturbing the rest of the household.

A timely, generous and selfless act from a close relative at the weekend has lifted the severe financial pressure on us. I sincerely hope the immense gratitude is apparent to them and that I prove worthy of the 'investment'.

Desperately tired and restless now. A combination of stress, insomnia, last week's event and the new drug regime I suppose. Not to mention all the personal attention being lavished, which I'm unaccustomed to! A couple of good nights sleep would be more than welcome and I'm pretty sure increase my positivity no end.

As always, any comment is appreciated. Particularly if you have any sense of the direction this blog or my life should be taking!

Tuesday 23rd January 2018 - The Story Ends

So, my story ends a little sooner than I had predicted.

Letters are written, the office is tidy and the process has begun.

I will endeavour to send final messages to family before I lose consciousness completely.

Thank you to anyone who cared to read this blog & responded positively to my twitter postings.

I wish you all to lead full and happy lives.

Plesre take tthe ume to leacr o vonr commrnt or dontion :)
























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op fmmt

Goodbye and good luck.

Monday 22nd January 2018 - Still here

The letters from the bank have started to arrive, giving notice of declined payments. The trigger I had been expecting.

So, yesterday was to be the day. Last night in fact.

I had written some notes on the laptop, which was to be left open so that whoever discovered me in the morning would have a connection to the me that was a few hours earlier.

It begins, as it should do, with the following line:

"Please do not resuscitate - I am of sound mind and fully aware of the consequences of my actions."

There is a brief explanation of how I came to this point, directions as to where goodbye letters may be found on the pc, the funeral arrangements to be made (the service is written), who to contact about life and pensions, how a little money might be raised and a final goodbye.

However, I received a 'phone call in the morning from a relative who would like to visit this Saturday. I would like to see him and his partner one more time so I have resolved to try to make it to the weekend. It does seem a long way off, though.

To fill the days I will endeavour to do some work, engage on Twitter and keep home-life as normal as possible for my nearest and dearest. Having rediscovered my love of writing, the inability to continue with it will be my last great regret.

Tuesday 16th January 2018 - Surviving One Day At A Time

Here we are still.

'They' say that every day is a bonus but it doesn't feel like it. Constant worry, extreme exhaustion, loneliness & the inability to formulate a solution turn life into existence, not living. The end seems inevitable now - I'm just waiting for the trigger. I don't know where it will come from; a 'phone call, unwanted mail or a misplaced word but it's coming.

I agonise over the consequences.

A mentally ill wife, drugged up to the eyeballs, who "can't be bothered" or "doesn't feel like it" or "wishes" for or "wants" things but makes no effort or progress towards attaining them. Expecting them just to arrive, she numbs her intellect further with a diet of daytime TV, soaps & other nonsense, constantly informs me about every minor ailment that most of us would think nothing of, or unworthy of comment at least, and takes issue with every passing comment or minor event due to anxiety. All whilst grazing on junk food; the effects of which are now counteracted by the use of statins, rather than willpower or restraint. Traits and eccentricities that were once considered quirky, charming or quaint have become exaggerated over time, as seems to happen to us all as the years pass,I suppose. The daily ritual takes place without apparently noticing or considering others. The effect it has on my quality of life is akin to forced anonymity. At the same time, I feel the guilt and responsibility of someone who's shared so much of her life and who cannot reasonably be said to be blameless in the journey that brought us here.

In this situation, would my demise be the making or breaking of her. I try to convince myself that having to face up to life and responsibility may, after the initial shock phase, make her stronger in the long-term. The children will surely rally around with the support she will need in the beginning but that raises another issue. As young adults are they yet mature enough to accept and deal with this? Is it fair on them, anyway?

I spend every day treading on eggshells and with the spectre of debt collectors looming on the horizon. With nobody to turn to for support this really can't continue.

The recent return to reading and writing brings brief moments of solace but it's not enough.

To anyone reading this I apologise for the brevity, lack of structure & tone. And it feels like I'm abdicating responsibility which is disingenuous.  However, it's all I can manage today - maybe there'll be a 'bonus' day for elaboration and editing.

Wednesday 10th January 2018 - Regrets? I've had a few

I find it absurd and rather egotistical when people say they have no regrets in life.

It implies a lifetime of precise decision making and never a misplaced spoken or written word. A perfect life without a slip in word or deed. Balderdash!

No word or deed is ever unconsidered, if only for a moment, before being given life in the world & every action has implications. Cause & effect.

One need not dwell on past indiscretions or self-flagellate over missed opportunity, I suppose (though I admit I can't help myself). Particularly when an otherwise useful, productive and fulfilling existence has been had but surely only the psychopathic or sociopathic amongst us can be reminded of past events without feeling something; happiness, sadness, pride, remorse - the yin and yang experiences which serve to shape us. It is the weight that we choose to give each side that determines our own satisfaction and that is down to personality, which is largely formed in our early years and beyond our control.

My regrets are many. Chief amongst them, the soul-destroying years of unfulfilling office work, I always considered a necessary & selfless duty in order to put food on the table and a roof over the heads of a young family. On reflection, I should have done more to change the course of my life. It would not have been selfish to take the risk and explore other avenues more fully. Indeed, the angst and depression I felt must surely have affected my nearest and dearest to the point that any economic benefit from my persistence may have been offset entirely. Ergo, the consequences of inaction may be as detrimental as misplaced action.

I can have no regret about marriage and raising children. It's easy to rationalise that the whole point of anyone's existence is to ensure the survival of the species. Whether or not my own contributions to the human gene pool have been worthwhile, we may never know but to the extent that I have fulfilled my singular purpose for being I should be satisfied.

The question is, what is left to do now. Kids are fledged, I'm 53, broke & have almost no income. That roof I suffered selflessly for will surely be gone before long. Had I followed my artistic instincts and pursued photography and writing more vigorously, I might now be reaping the psychological & financial rewards. Both, I can confidently say, would at least have been much improved. Could I have played the game at interview & won that scholarship -Yes. Ought I to have taken that opportunity to study for a degree 15 years ago - Yes. Certainly, I have regrets and so should everyone else. Ultimately, it is to the degree that these affect others or they gnaw at your own psyche that really matters.

Comments and contributions are gratefully received, both positive and negative. Please leave something if you have the time. Thanks for reading.

Sunday 7th January 2018 - Reading & Desperation

Yesterday, I decided to fire up the Nook while I worked. It had been left forlorn & unloved on the bookshelf for the past couple of years. Found a charger & plugged it into the USB drive on the PC - for a while it appeared to have died but I was pleased when it came back to life.

I immediately found the Virginia Woolf diaries I had been reading & determined to carry on reading them from whence I left off, though I obviously couldn't recall much of what had been written up to that point. What I find remarkable is how normal life seemed back home during the Great War. Cinemas & concert halls remained open, book reviews were written & people concerned themselves with the day-to-day business of living. The war didn't appear to be a daily preoccupation in the minds of everyday folk - at least not to V.W. & her nearest & dearest.

I've been dipping in and out of the 'book' overnight & into this morning. It has become obvious that I have missed reading - TV, for the most part, dulls the senses & inspires no thought in the viewer. Aside from the odd well-made movie or documentary as was the case with Love Actually. Last night's view was The Lives of Cats & Dogs - not much to say about it, really. Quite well done rom-com pulp if you've nothing better to do one evening.

Insomnia & the constant stress of my financial predicament lead me still to the almost inevitable & imminent conclusion of my life. There appears to be no way out. I still work feverishly on my Ebay shop; at least to the extent that my utter exhaustion allows. However, £2 postcard sales are not going to pay the mortgage & all the bills will arrive in the next few weeks. Dreading the daily rattle of the post flap. I shall continue to work, though it seems a rather futile & academic pursuit now. Strange & rather tragic that the last of my days should be spent like this but bucket list pursuits are impossible, so what else is there to do.

The Final Curtain Call?

This blog was meant to have been started some years ago. I have returned to it at a very low point in my life in the hope, not expectation, that a soul purge might actually save it. Crippling financial issues, a mentally ill wife & a decrepit dog have led me to the point of suicide planning as the 50 something life of quiet desperation & loneliness cannot be viewed as a viable option indefinitely.

With the plans in place, I took to scribbling down my own funeral service a couple of weeks ago & I thought I'd reproduce it here in the rough draft form in which it was left - a virtual congregation is better than nothing, I suppose. My aim was to make it to christmas for the sake of the family & this has been duly achieved. As another holiday weekend arrives, I feel safe from the creditors & it is likely that I will now see at least the first green shoots of 2018.

Anyway, here it is warts and all:

"Music In : Karl Jenkins - Dies Irae (because I fancy making an entrance just the once)

I was born on 20th December, 1964, on a snowy night at my grandparents' house & grocery store at *****************.

Later, in 1967, a brother would arrive, followed in 1971 by a terrible accident [my sister].

My childhood years were spent in Wymondham, Fakenham, Cromer, West Winch (nr King's Lynn) & Ormesby as my father moved around the county of Norfolk with each successive promotion.

In common with most people, I suspect, my memories of those years are an eclectic mix.

In Fakenham, I collected frogs spawn & fell through glass while adventuring in the garden.

Cromer provided a very uncomfortable cure for the constipation I was prone to, in the flat above the bank we lived in whilst our house was being built; traipsing to school in the snow wearing short trousers; careering down the hill we lived on, on my bicycle & obviously being unable to stop at the bottom without crashing; collecting frogs, picking bluebells, running for my life from a swarm of bees I'd upset & kissing Diana Hare 50 times in the bathroom of her parents' house. Then, there was the copper knocking on the door one evening because I'd cracked another kid's head open with a stone during a mud fight, provoking a bee to sting me to find out what it felt like & having to do a xmas reading to a large gathering - I believe this was because I was a voracious reader in those days & knew how to pronounce the long words, rather than on account of any public speaking skill or youthful charisma.

At West Winch, I continued to read & excelled academically; at primary school at least. At 8 years old a teacher suggested I had a career as a writer to look forward to, which impressed & encouraged me greatly as a little bookworm. I also remember the free, daily milk we were given before Thatcher put a stop to that. Then there was the new kid from America hurling the chalkboard rubber back at Mr Bray, at an even greater velocity than it had arrived because he didn't know any different, having my face forced into the ground by 'Fatty' Fuller and riding home on my bicycle one lunchtime, thinking it was the end of school for the day.

My academic career really peaked at age 11. I passed the entrance exam but failed the London interview for a scholarship to Gresham's School. I was still a shoo-in for Grammar school but the emphasis on learning by rote didn't appeal and neither did the formality or discipline. Smoking behind the bushes, lunchtime expeditions out of school when they were banned & fights on the playing field ensued. I did manage an 'A' in English Language, which I took a year early & a few more 'O' Level passes but nothing to bang a drum about.

Further disappointment was to come on leaving school when my dream of becoming a detective was quashed by a failure at the final interview for a place at the Metropolitan Police Training Academy in Hendon. My honesty let me down, once again!

At this point we'll brush over my 'career', except to say that it was unfulfilling, unrewarding, fitful, largely unplanned and not much fun. Application to routine, discipline and the desire to be instructed never were my strong suits.

In 1990 I began dating the love of my life, Dianne. It all began on April 22nd that year and I proposed 10 weeks later on July 1st. She always lets the side down by not remembering the dates. My memory will consign anything it regards as inconsequential to the recycle bin so I think this emphasises the importance I attach to these dates.

We married on 9th March 1991, moving into our flat-pack filled new home on our wedding night. Della Luisa arrived, over 2 weeks late, on 30th September 1992 and the nuclear family was complete on our anniversary in 1996 with Max Angus' arrival - the longest baby in history and the second whopper for poor, diminutive Dianne..

They've now turned into 2 fine, young adults. I hope that the love, encouragement & freedom of expression they were afforded will be passed on to the next generation, should they choose to have children themselves. I'm very proud of them both and I can say, without ego, that Dianne and I should give ourselves a pat on the back for a job well done!

Reading : Dylan Thomas - Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
                (if you can get a recording of  Richard Burton reading this, that would be great)

Thomas wrote that for his sick father.
To me, though, the dying of the light begins on the first day of our lives. So, please, if you can, roar through the metaphorical pearly gates, completely knackered from a lifetime of excess on a tricked out Harley. Bright eyed, bushy tailed pedestrians you are not!

Some Life Lessons - What I've Learned But Not Necessarily Acted Upon

1. If you're obese or stupid at 16, that's your parents' fault. If you're fat & stupid at 26, that's your fault. What have you done with the past 10 years? Did you change your diet, read a book, try critical thinking? Why not?

2. Don't judge strangers. That drunk, disheveled man sheltering from the weather, under cardboard, in a shop doorway, was once a small child running down a street somewhere, carefree & full of hope and joy. His path has probably been a long and tortuous one. He's not made a lifestyle choice!

3. If you have a dream, make it a reality. Stop dreaming or wishing. Make a plan and every day take one step towards making it come true. One day that almost imperceptible light in the distance will be bright as day and right in front of you.

4. Surround yourself with positive, motivated people and avoid the naysayers. If people say something can't be done, take up the challenge and prove them wrong.

5. Keep an open mind and question everything; even if you believe it to be true.

These are the lessons I should have taken on board and acted upon and for the most part did not.

Now, go forth and eat, drink & be merry and lead full and happy lives.

Take it away, Joe.

Exit Music: Joe Cocker - Fire It Up [Live in Cologne if possible]"