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]

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.

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.

Sunday 28th January 2018 - Make Strangers A Source Of Inspiration

On Sunday 14th January, I posted a piece entitled Struggling for Inspiration.

https://thereluctantdiarist.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/sunday-14th-january-2018-struggling-for.html

One of the options I put forward was to "Make strangers a source of inspiration".

Here's an example. She's not an interesting character but if you were to rock her world, all kinds of possibilities could be imagined.

The Bobette

The Bobette is characterised by shoulder length, cut too thick hair and tinted but only to preserve neutrality and cover any early grey strands - no reds, blues or greens for this girl.

Safe, comfortable, middle class, boring without realising it & married to Mr Dependable who leaves the house at 8 a.m.every morning and walks back through the door at 6 p.m. prompt. Typically aged 30-50, though sometimes the condition's onset is earlier, she's advertising that Mr Right has been found and the only flattery or attention she desires now is from her female friends.

She may keep a house cat but is wary of dogs - she heard some could be dangerous. The small car that ferries her around probably has a given name, rigidly obeys speed limits & all other road signage & is checked over by Mr Bobette every weekend at her behest. Naturally risk averse she 's never made a bungee jump, pillioned on a motorcycle, smoked, drunk more than 2 glasses of wine, visited a tropical country or driven without fastening her seatbelt.

She dresses neatly for comfort - trouser suits, knee-length skirts, blouses (not too clingy) and twinsets. She doesn't own a pair of jeans but has a cupboard full of low heeled, scuff-free shoes.

Her home is clean, neat & sparsely decorated. The lounge is functional with a plain wool mix carpet & seating pushed back against the walls.A nest of tables sits in a corner of the room and if there is sufficient space to allow the room to remain uncluttered, a coffee table beset with the obligatory cookery books, coasters & a small vase of dried flowers will rest on a neutral rug in the centre. The table will be just beyond arms reach of the sofa sitters but form prevails over functionality here. On the longest wall a tasteful, conventional, posed, professionally-taken A3 photograph of her nuclear family takes prominence. A smear-free glass fronted display cabinet houses more silver-framed family portraits - none of them show the subjects engaged in activity, just dutifully staring into the camera lens with their vacant smiles and safe haircuts.

The kitchen is rebuilt every few years with a contemporary but not bold design. Full sets of cutlery and crockery are neatly stored - loss or breakage demands replacement and a trip to the charity shop with the perfectly serviceable old sets.

The fitted bedroom is feminine, pastel and floral with functional, formal lighting and no allusion to a temptress's boudoir. Bathrooms are polished and fragranced with neatly arranged toiletries & a small bottle of after shave the only indication of a male presence.

When the kids are collected from school - which, of course, they must be given all the dangers of suburban life - she stands with the other Bobettes & talks proudly of Mr Bobette's promotion to deputy bean counter in accounts receivable and the fish pie that she's prepared for dinner.

The rest of her days are filled with cleaning, tidying, shopping, a flower arranging course and weight watchers.

And such will be her life. So long as the basic security & comfort she feels isn't rocked, her limited imagination & intelligence will permit a definite contentment with banality and good luck to her. It's not a life that most would choose but the malcontents amongst us might just hide a tiny bit of envy for an unremarkable, uncomplicated existence.

Please feel free to leave comments.

Saturday 13th January 2018 - Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I'm the sum of all my actions & experiences. As are you. That's a given. Or, is it?

At this point, I have cause to pause for thought. My propensity to O.C.D. would require that two lists are now written, as comprehensive as possible in their scope, to support this statement.

However, since every action creates a reaction, then in our personal worlds this can be said to be an experience. Ergo, we are all simply sums of our individual experiences.

Since we are only in control of the inputs to self to some degree, our character formation is largely beyond our control.

At birth we arrive in the world pre-programmed to accept input from those around us and we must take this at face value since we are unknowing and helpless at this point. Our brains are chiefly concerned with physical functionality but at their most receptive to suggestion. So, we learn quickly from those in our immediate environment. First come the basic social interaction & motor skills such as facial expression & body language in order to start communicating in our world, then walking and taking and so on.

In order to thrive in this world we go on to adopt it's social conventions & belief systems. By the time we are early school age there is not a substantial amount of hard-wiring left to do. We are still open to any amount of new input but we have come to trust and rely on our own small social group of family & friends to such an extent that acceptance of alternative views & behaviours will be hard to accept. We may derive much benefit from a good teacher at this stage, while we still accept adults as oracles.

My assertion then is that personality is duly formed by this point. The programming (brainwashing) base is in place and we will simply build on this foundation for the rest of our lives, barring a particular emotional shock or concerted effort to change.

Have we ever been in control of our own lives or were our paths mapped out, with the occasional diversion along the way, for us before we knew any better?

I could go on to recant personal experience that I believe may have shaped me here but I think that's enough digression for now and some of those events will have been covered in previous posts. My next entry will be a simple view of the world in terms of my likes and dislikes, which this was intended to be before the mind wandered.

Thank you for getting this far. As always, I would welcome any feedback you might be willing to provide but as previously mentioned I believe these posts are only being scraped by robots, not humans.