So, the first helicopter of the day passed over about 9 am. it didn’t hover, just went straight over the house, and into the distance. Panic scale was about a 5, and spent the next 10 minutes breathing – almost normally, if you are a bull-frog with asthma -and a further 5 minutes listening for any cars pulling up outside my house. I want to be ready when they kick the door down.
OK, so already, you are thinking: nut job, loony, fruitcake, ding-a-ling, nutter, goober, psycho, crackpot.
I wouldn’t blame you. Sometimes, I shout such epithets at myself, as I am a reasonably intelligent (not clever; if I was clever, I would be rich), ordinary chap with 6 ‘O’-levels and a tent. I am no more scary than a cheese sandwich (mild cheddar, no sauce). Yet, I have a mind that simply does not work properly in relation to certain triggers; and I’ve a mind that, whether I tell it to desist or no, feels free to make up its own mind when to drop into deep despair, or sail to happy unsustainable heights. Even though I understand the world outside is quite a non-threatening place for the innocent, I do not like to venture out into it; even though I am a gregarious type, a crowd gives me the heebeegeebies. If I am trapped in a supermarket checkout queue, my breathing sounds positively pervy. It comes, as the old joke goes, like a young lad: in short pants.
So I get quite angry at myself.
I remember, in the days of my fast-receding youth (a property, I am glad to say, that my hair does not seem inclined to share), being very, very drunk, and, standing in front of a mirror, told myself to stop swaying from side to side. I knew I could do it, nearly anyone can stop swaying: but my brain, addled in this instance by copious amounts of Mitchell and Butler’s Mild Ale, refused to comply.
So does my brain fail to comply, without alcoholic prompting, to instructions to stop viewing the tourist-with-a-camera as a spy, cataloguing my daily movements.
I mention all this because in all other respects, I am depressingly ‘normal’ – insofar as someone who thinks Cholmondley St.John-Bartholomew is a good name for his (now, sadly, expired) bushbaby is ‘normal’. As such, you may wish to unfollow me on twitter, unfriend me on facebook, and never come within a good barge-pole’s length of this blog again. I shall understand, because it is something I would consider if I were not me, if you follow.
So, fair warning given, I would opine. Further epistles might well be less of me, and more of general Tory bothersomeness; incredulity may be stretched, but not broken, and, like the smoking flax of old, I may be given to smoking, but will never be truly blown out.
I’m off to try and Google the ‘registered nurse’ who considers I will be all but cured in 359 days (and counting) by the miracle that is Atosness. I might then try and find out if she has only worked in a chiropody outpatient department for the last 35 years, and thus is more than competent in the DWP’s eyes to pontificate on my illness. It won’t help, but it might make me feel better to know that her hands still bear the faint odour of toenail fungus, despite her scrubbing with perfumed oils and soaps until her hands go raw.
Wish me luck. And keep taking the Dried Frog Pills (with thanks to Mr Pratchett for the tin).
Until next time
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