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Teresa finally got me out on a walk today. She’s been trying for ages. But I’ve been resistant. Due to the intense depression of recent times. Of course the irony is that a walk is, or certainly can be, pure medicine.

Using the ‘pano’ pic function vertically, on trees, is, I reckon, pretty cool.

The door pictured above is a side entrance to a property (and it’s minuscule garden) that we were quite keen on, when we started looking at houses in March. It’s a fab old stone built place. But it needed a cash-buyer – most probably a builder/developer- with the wherewithal to do a new roof, and lots of other structural stuff.

We walked along the river, from Creek Road, across the High Street, and along the park and back via West End. And what a pleasurable experience it was.

Grey and overcast. But gorgeous nonetheless. What a tonic!

I was up unusually early today. I made Teresa and I French Toast, or eggy-bread, for breakfast.

We then set off, at 9am, southwards, to the Little Gransden Air Show. I kept our destination a surprise, and to my gurt gratification, Teresa was pleased.

We missed our annual trips to the any of the local 1940s shows. So this was kind of making up for that.

The weather on the drive down was sublime. Beautifully sunny, and lovely and warm. Alas, for most of the show itself it was cloudy, with a strong cold wind, and occasional showers. A bit of a test, in all honesty!

Still, there were lots of interesting planes, loads of classic cars (inc a whole fleet of MX5s!), and even some nice motorbikes.

We took a picnic lunch. Brie, baguette, salad, some drinks, etc. It was fun. Despite the less than ideal weather.

We got there about 10.15am; It would’ve been 10, but for the difficulty procuring a baguette on a Sunday morning!

And we stayed till about 3.15pm. So we lasted a good five hours. I wanted to stay to the end, as the climax was a pair of Hurricanes and a B-17.

But after three, exhaustion got the better of me, and I was no longer game for enduring the cold or occasional rain.

I tried to not over spend, as finances remain parlous. But I did buy us some cake, and myself a few vintage 1/72 model kits (not planes!).

We didn’t get the programme. So I might not be able to correctly identify or name the planes and other stuff I photographed. But the main thing was we had a pleasant day out.

Once home, via Wisbech (Teresa bought two punnets of someone’s home-grown Victoria plums!), it was supper (left-over jambalaya), bath, and bed.

I’m so utterly shattered I was a-bed by 7pm! I think that’s my earliest yet?

And, rather sadly – for me, at any rate – I seem to be yo-yo’ing emotionally. They used to call it manic-depressive. Now it’s called no-polar. Whatever it is, it’s awful!

Anyway, I’m now in bed, listening, thanks to our recently acquired Fire Stick, to rain in a Korean sequoia forest. Part of my stress-relief campaign again insomnia.

A large fan is on, cooling our stuffy and muggy room, I’ve had a thyme tea (I’ve got a persistent cough*), and now, at twenty to nine, Teresa and Chester have joined me, upstairs.

*Note to self; must see doc’ about this.

And to finish, in honour of Bert, or Albert, my grandfather, a Royal Canadian Air Force plane:

I’m largely cutting down on the booze. That said, I still like a drum here or there. And this recent discovery is my current hands-down – or should that be glass raised? – favourite.

It’s got a hint of marmite about it. which I like.

I need to find out what this place is, and exactly where I saw it. All I recall right now is that it’s not far from Peterborough, and is just off a junction on the A1(M). A

lovely Georgian looking building, with that elegant yet simple symmetry. The two, erm… ‘wings’, with the cut out curves really add something special and a bit different to the look.

And the off white paintwork looks so gorgeous – like clotted cream! – on a sunny day, with the green lawn and bright blue sky. Just jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Teresa often puts Rick Stein stuff on when we’re having Saturday breakfast in bed. Today this dish appeals enough to make me plan on cooking it for supper tonight.

The next three pics show how the paella rice soaks up the chicken stock.

And then, finally, to eat…

Rick Stein described it, rather oddly I thought, as ‘the sort of thing you could cook in a bed-sit’! Well, whatever. It was absolutely delicious, tho’ I say so myself.

And how’s this for synchronicity? Rickolas is doing a Topping talk in Ely, in October. So I snapped us up two tickets and a copy of his new book.

Snapped backstage at the recent Hollywood Bowl Herbie Hancock helmed tribute to Wayne Shorter. Two great artists whose musical legacies are awesome, inspiring and to be forever treasured.

Love you Joni!

Love you Ron!

This is the sort of sight very common in war zones, a house burnt-down, nought left but brickwork. A very common sight in WWII Russia, where chimneys were very often the only parts of a building not made of combustible wood.

But not the sort of thing you often see at the side of a road in the UK.

The scaffolding is suggestive of somebody trying to work on the property. So, was this arson? an accident? or someone just getting sick of trying to restore something too far gone?

The two fireplaces remain relatively recognisable. Especially this still tiled one. The burned ghost of the mantelpiece is rather haunting.

I’d driven past this numerous times. Always thinking I should stop and take pics, before it gets cleaned up. And so I finally did just that.

Walking all around the charred remains of what was once somebody dwelling was an intriguing experience.

Quite a salutory reminder of the impermanence of the things we make, from our homes to our very lives.

I met a selection of delightful members of the equine family recently on my peregrinations around The Fens. This donkey and the little pony were truly lovely.

I fed the donkey an apple, and he loved it. And I spent a good 10-15 minutes chatting amiably with the delightful critter.

The donkey was very communicative and interactive. The long-fringed pony, was more reticent. I wonder if that ‘80s New Romantic coiffure has ‘owt to do wi’ it?

There were five or six hirsute quadrupeds in this little lane type pen area. And just as I was leaving the horse pictured below sauntered up. He was the most skittish of the lot. And also, by normal standards, I suppose, the most handsome.

But it was señor donkey who really stole my heart. How lovely it was to spend a brief moment hanging with these adorable creatures.

Having recently posted to FB (and on here) about re-reading Tolkien’s Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, I suddenly had a desire to learn the origin of the Tolkien family name.

I found this article, amongst many other suggestions. And it seems quite plausible. But another source suggested a different meaning.

What these two differing explanations concurred in was a ‘Low Prussian’ origin, which also sits well with the fact that a Tolkien ancestor moving from Danzig to England in the 18th century.

Also in that neck of the woods, there is the Polish town of Tolkiny:

I’ve decided to make this post, and publicly (kind of*) talk a bit about suicide. I suppose the trigger to do so is the recent death of Sinead O’Connor.

Nobody (at the time I first posted this) – at least nobody I could find online – has said yet exactly how she died. But there’s a distinct possibility it may have been suicide. I didn’t know till reading about it yesterday and today (in the wake of her passing), but her son Shane hung himself in 2022.

I’m not a fan of Sinead O’Connor, to be candid. Ok, I do like Nothing Compares 2U. But as far as I know that’s the only thing she’s done I like. I’ve watched the Father Ted episode that lampoons her (Rock A Hula, Ted) much more frequently than I’ve ever listened to her.

So, in all honesty, and meaning no disrespect to her, her family/friends and fans, etc, her death is merely an excuse for me to say out loud that I myself have often been suicidally depressed.

I’ve had thoughts that to be dead might be preferable to being alive since my mid-teens. And in nearly all the subsequent years it’s been such a commonplace idea or desire for me that it’s become an unthreateningly banal thought for me.

In all that time I never really got too close to acting on such thoughts. They were, by and large, just nasty passing ideas and emotions.

But that has changed somewhat in the last six months. In this recent bout of depression, which comes on the back of a long and happy period of contentment, I’ve tried twice to hang myself. I’m most definitely not proud of this. But I don’t want to be ashamed of it either. And I suppose I’m allowing O’Connor’s death, and that of her son Shane, to give me license to speak of such things.

One thing that reading about Sinead and her son has done for me, is give me a better perspective on the fall-out and damage such actions have. One of the problems is, the suicidally depressed person tends to be very solipsistic and inwardly directed. AKA self-centred. And they may even think most folk will actually be glad they’re gone.

Teresa, my wife, knows about what’s been happening with me. But up till I made this post only a very few in my closest family also knew (plus my doc’, and some ‘professionals’, or care-workers). But just recently I’ve started to ‘confess’ about it to a few friends. And, whilst I was very anxious about it, I think (or is that hope?) that it has been a good thing.

I can’t speak for the suicidal at large. But I have learned over the years that those prone to such thoughts might go through several stages, over time. I’m not going to pretend to try and be at all scientific or rigorous about this. I’m just writing about my experience.

My first stage was just thinking about it a lot. And back then I very rarely ever thought far enough down the road towards acting on it. I do recall looking at knives and wondering how messy it might be, or plain difficult, to successfully stab or cut oneself.

The second stage, at least for me, is when you start to think, plan, and research the idea. You may by this time have thought so much about it you find yourself thinking, well, I need to know how to act on these thoughts, at some stage.

And the third stage is the transition, having thought about it an awful lot, and researched it a good deal (can I get some pure helium? for example; not easy!), and maybe even laid some plans, to beginning to act on these thoughts.

For some that might mean stockpiling certain pills. For others it might be writing goodbye notes.

On two occasions in the last six months, both during sleepless nights, in the wee small hours, I’ve got out of bed, and gone downstairs to fashion a rudimentary and makeshift noose, from whatever I can find, and then tried to hang myself.

Hanging oneself isn’t the method I’d choose ‘on paper’, so to speak. A suicide bag kit, with an inert gas would be best, as in most effective and least painful or messy. Overdosing on pills is out. And I’m too lazy to go somewhere like a train track. Plus I really don’t like the public aspect of that type of suicide. °

° Traumatising one’s near and dear is bad enough. But traumatising random strangers? That’s a step too far!

Anyway, the first time I actually really tried – prob’ back in February of this year? – I went to my workshop shed, and made a noose from a length of blue nylon cord. With a very simple noose around my neck, I attached the other end to an extremely strong fixture on a roofing beam, and then slumped, letting my legs go limp.

I don’t know how long I hung there. It felt like several minutes. And it was very uncomfortable. As time passed, I felt extremely foolish. So I just stood up. The roofs in all of my several sheds are way too low to hang from them, with feet dangling above the floor.

After maybe five minutes of just standing there, quite possibly mumbling to myself, I had a second go. This time I tried to get the noose better positioned to cut off air supply, and possibly even blood supply.

The second go was even more physically uncomfortable. And again, although it may only have been seconds, it felt like I hung there for several minutes. I was hoping and half-expecting to slide into unconsciousness. And from there I thought things would ‘naturally’ take over for me.

But this didn’t happen. So once again, in the face of considerable pain and discomfort, I simply straightened my legs and stood up. Was this all just a half-arsed attempt? Or was I really serious? I’ll confess, I really honestly don’t know. It seemed serious enough to me at the time. But with hindsight?

Anyway, after the second go also failed, I removed the rope, and went back inside our house. I woke Teresa up, and confessed to what I’d done. I can’t recall much of what passed after that. Poor Teresa!

My next or second attempt, much more recently (but I forget exactly when!?), might make a good tragicomic scene on the small or large screen? Again it was around 3-4am, not having slept at all. And, once again, whilst depressed, sad and upset, I was also kind of ‘blank’, or dead inside.

This time the first thing I did on going downstairs was call The Samaritans. I don’t think I was even thinking of suicide yet, at this point? I was just very depressed, unable to sleep, and maybe wanting some form of help. Or just someone to talk to?

There have been periods in the last six months when I’ve called The Samaritans daily (or nightly), sometimes multiple times in a day. In previous bouts of depression – sadly I’ve had a fair few over the years – I’d been very critical and dismissive of their service. But now I’d become so down and desperate I was starting to find them actually quite helpful (on occasion).

The funny thing is (funny peculiar, that is; not so much funny ha-ha, I guess?) that despite all the time and energy put into research and potential planning, for me at any rate, the move to acting on these thoughts can be shockingly swift and easy. And not just easy, but also surprisingly and banally blank, possibly emotionless?

Anyway, on this particular night, after over 20 minutes with no one answering my call to The Samaritans, the suicidal thoughts kicked in. Teresa had hidden the nylon cord. But there’s always something to hand.

On this occasion one of Teresa’s longer knitted scarves served my purposes. Interestingly it was a similar blue to the nylon rope I’d used the previous time. Just coincidence. So, I fashioned a very rudimentary noose at one end, and then secured the other to the highest bit of our stair furniture I could get at.

The first comic part of this tragicomic moment occurred at this point. Chester, our cat was on the stairs, near where I was fixing the scarf. He thought I wanted to play; and started attacking the scarf. Bless him!

But I wasn’t made happier by this at the time, alas (I usually would be), nor was I deflected from my grim but soulless resolve. I put the noose round my neck, drew it pretty tight, and, as previously – low ceilings etc, again – let my legs go limp.

This turned out to be a very different experience to my previous effort. The knitted wool of the scarf, which one might’ve thought would be softer and more comfortable, quickly drew very, very tight around my neck, as my weight went onto it.

This time I did feel my breath being cut off. As intended. And, very rapidly – within 20-30 seconds – I sensed my blood vessels must also be getting seriously constricted; I felt myself going into a swoon. My vision even darkened.

Despite this being what I supposedly wanted to happen, the shock of it actually happening really alarmed me. So much so that I just involuntarily stood up. My head was spinning, and the noose end of the scarf was still extremely and uncomfortably tight round my neck. My heart started pounding. I felt panic mounting.

Then… a lady answered my Samaritans call? I’d left my phone, still in one of those interminable queues we all experience, on our dining room table. ‘Good morning’ – it was about 3.30am – ‘The Samaritans, can I help you?’ a female voice asked.

I was still dizzy and light-headed, and very much tethered to our stairs, in such a way that I couldn’t get to and pick up my phone. I tried to explain this to the lady, on the line, but I was still dizzy, and – I suppose? – in a state of shock and confusion. I guess this is an opportunity to use a rather fine word; I was rather discombobulated! I don’t recall exactly what I said now. But I probably said something like ‘Could she bear with me’, whilst I tried to untether myself!

At first, and before I could talk to her properly, I tried to loosen the noose end, around my neck, as it remained worryingly and painfully tight. But try as I might I was getting nowhere. I managed to stretch it, and thereby take a good deal of the pressure of my neck. But this slightly panicked effort just tightened the noose part more.

Because I was a bit woozy, it took me a minute or two to think of untying the other end. Once I’d thought to do that, it proved much easier. But the scarf itself remained tied to me until quite some time after the subsequent Samaritans chat finally ended.

Looking back on this now I can see the comedy in the scenario. But at the time it was pretty grim! Anyway, it’s now 2.20am. So I ought to try and get some sleep. Don’t want to precipitate a third attempt, do I?

* Not that many folk know of let alone read this blog! So it’s hardly that public.

FOOTNOTE

Another element that, retrospectively, might add to the comic aspect, was that I had a T-shirt on, but naught else. I often sleep naked. Otherwise so get too hot to sleep. But talking to a stranger, tethered to one’s banister, in such a state? Maybe even more so because it’s a woman I’m talking to, and we’re talking about me attempting suicide… It’s all both very weird and, oddly, just a bit funny.