Category: Uncategorised

I’m having real problems with mornings right now. I simply don’t want to engage with the world. And I’m putting off doing so as long as I can.

Part of it may be necessary recovery. But I feel fairly sure that part of it is down to a depression. A depression that may not lift or dissipate until dealt with.

Trouble is… I just don’t know what to do! I’ve very definitely lost my mojo…

Anyway, I was thinking about music in general, as I very often do, and Sting in particular. Not 100% sure why? And as I thought back through several of his albums, when I reached Dream of the Blue Turtles, a lance of pain went through my heart.

I think the Sting train of thought left the station on thoughts of ‘Fragile’, due to how fragile I currently feel. Good ol’ Gordy Sumnoid.

Unresolved, unhealed pain from the deep past. Casting a long and baleful shadow. What does one do? It may – it ought to? – perhaps, help me understand dad’s situation a bit better.

I dunno… I just feel like throwing in the towel, to be honest. Coping, or attempting to, is too draining/enervating.

Did two delivery shift out of Wisbech Mozzer’s today. Both up, around and in Kings Lynn. Absolutely nowt of interest to report about them.

It was a scorching hot day. 32°, acc to my iPhone app. As high as 35° acc to my in car temperature gauge. Thank goodness for decent in car air-conditioning.

Once home, I had to pop out and collect Teresa, from the March station. Her train was affected, aka delayed, allegedly (acc to the train folk) due to the heat.

Once back home, again, and for a change, I cooked… hot dogs! Simple. But tasty and fun.

Teresa provided the sliced cucumber accompaniment, to keep us decent and honest. I cooked enough to feed us both, and Antonio.

I slept till midday today. Total and utter exhaustion! And I’d felt pretty shitty once up and about. But fortunately things gradually improved. Work, whatever its other highs and lows, is, for me at present, a tonic.

It grounds me, calms me (mostly!), and of course keeps us (just about) solvent.

Well, first off, what a wonderful day it is, and has been, all day.

Second, the trip itself was mercifully stress-free. Occasionally mild panic set in. Buy all told, this was simply a lovely day out on the River Ouse.

Well, today we go on another family boat trip, again out of the Fish & Duck Marina, as last time. Will dad be there? Can I handle the scenario?

Sadly I had a less than ideal night, not sleeping as fully or soundly as I’d have liked. That doesn’t help! Nor, truth be told, do dreams of paranoia and alienation, such as I was having shortly before I woke.

In my dream, I’m asked to helped prepare some kind of joint birthday party type celebration for – well, I forget who, now – the music to be provided by Tom O’Grady & co.

Despite being asked to set up, and even take part, I soon realise I’m redundant. And not only that, not invited to the event at all. So I get the hump and leave.

A parallel thread with Teresa and I being lost in the sticks is also part of the unsettling melange. But the key notes are paranoia, exclusion, and social isolation.

At one point in the dream I’m either totally naked in public, or mostly so. And ashamed of myself/my body. Amongst this maelstrom of anxiety there’s plenty that very obviously relates to my real life current situation.

I’ve been mercifully free of such sleeping troubles, and/or associated psychic disturbances. It’s really not great for this to happen on the eve of another potentially fraught family boating trip.

I had said, earlier in the week, I/we may not be able to make it. But I’ve subsequently improved, and said we will. Then this! Oh well, I’ll be brave n’ bold. It might wind up being a tonic? Who knows?

I’ll take some ear-defense stuff (ear plugs/defenders), in case I need to block out any incessant moaning. But hopefully they won’t be required? Some light-hearted reading material, and suitable clothing…

Teresa wants us to take our camping chairs, for the Ely part of the outing. Do we do. Well, the time has come to go…

As a kid I had this album, on vinyl. Not sure if I or my parents bought it for me? I also had a remote controlled Lamborghini Countach, at the same time. The two things go together in my memory!

I recall mine being plain silver. But the above is the closest I could find online just now. Mine would’ve been Tandy branded only, I think, not Radio Shack.

It was the era of the cassette personal stereo. What memories! Fond ones. I was never a roller skater tho’! My sister managed it, but roller (or ice) skating only meant falling down/pain, for me.

I might also get Rock N’ Roll Juvenile? Hmmm?

Hannah brought Sofi over today. She’s staying with Antonio and us till Sunday (when another boat trip is happening!).

Teresa needed to go to the local library. So we all walked there together. I got rid of a little more vinyl (some 45s) and more clothes, at a charity shop en-route.

We bagged a huge haul o’ Blackberries! And there were loads more left.

A blackberry and apple crumble seems the proper thing.

Teresa came out with me on my short delivery route today. On which trip we met these critters:

These beauties were a joy to behold.

We popped in to B&Q on the way home. To look at vinyl flooring (for the kitchen). I bought a tester pot of green Valspar paint, with a view to repainting the smeggy looking kitchen door.

And in the evening, after a trip to the doctors, for me, it was dinner time. We had a fire, and ate the leftover spaghetti carbonara, with some salad veg. Lovely!

I’m still recovering from the foolishness of the day before, and the night before that. But I appear to be through the worst of that wobbly trauma.

I discussed with Dr Hedda Joyce, a wonderful human being, my recent circ’s and she prescribed me some more co-codamol. But refused the zopiclone, as ‘contra-indicated’!

Now we’re listening to Vincent Price, reading Edgar Allen Poe’s The Imp of The Perverse. I’m not sure my choice was the best, given my recent behaviour! But Vincent’s voice is so wonderful!

We also listened to a couple of Tolkien readings: Tom Bombadil, and The Ride of the Rohirrim. Fab! Later on, a shower, our ten minute Joe Wicks Seniors routine, and… bed!

Believe it or not, the image above captures a huge improvement in the state of clutter in that quarter of our bedroom. This area is not so good:

I took four black bin bags full of clothes, from Teresa’s mum’s place, and a chunk of my own clothes (that are damaged or past their best), and dumped the lot in the clothing recycling bins in the Sainsburys car park.

I also took about 80-100 vinyl records (and a tiny little electric ‘disco light’!) to one charity shop, and two bags full of mostly WWII military history books. I’d guestimate about 60 books. The only non-military stuff was a small selection of duplicate Tolkien paperbacks I really don’t need.

Teresa popped into the garden briefly, as she often does of an evening. And came upstairs, face all aglow, with two whopping great figs. She planted a number of fig twigs taken from her family’s fig tree, in Stanmore, several ago. And they’ve thrived.

Now to less happy matters: last night I drank a small (35 cl) bottle of whisky, purchased en-route home from work, at Aldi. I’ve been drinking the occasional alcoholic ‘Dame Edna’ for a while, after a spell of tee-totalism. And, in those famous last words of the alky-horlick… ‘I fort I cud ‘andle it.’

Well, up till last night, I could. And did. Sadly, however, on this occasion whisky precipitated other foolishness. And Lordy-Lord, I was paying for it today. I’ve sworn blind I’d not make these fool mistakes again. But, lo and behold, I do.

What brings on these occasional relapses? Wobbles. By which I mean fits of depression and frustration. Anyway, I think – I fervently hope – I’ve weathered this wee storm? It’s the same day/evening as the worst of my behaviour. The edgy panic, the fear and loathing have, mercifully, passed.

This has been helped by a number of things: my darling wife; The Samaritans; my own coping procedures (affirmation cards, positive activity, etc); and… by stopping before I slid off the edge.

The trouble with depression is that it turns one’s focus resolutely inwards. When it’s turning outwards, towards a world of interaction, that is most likely to help restore equilibrium.

Trouble is, my psycho-social battery is at 0%…

It seems to me I’m currently hitting the wall, so to speak. I simply don’t want to do anything. Hence the desire – and, more unusually, ability – to sleep for marathon stretches.

Whilst I’m now technically out from under the dread weight of false-allegations made against me. I’m also really not. Those lies had a profound effect on my already fragile mental health. And they totally trashed my teaching career.

Ok, so I’d wanted out of teaching for a long time. But not in the manner in which it transpired. The every cloud has a silver lining/always look on the bright side of life view is a good one. And helps me pull some good stuff out of the bonfire.

But damage has been done.

And I suspect my current hypersomnia is related to all this stuff. I’ve often talked here about my preference for sleep or oblivion to the soul-enervating grind of daily life. Well, I turned in 8.30 pm last night. It’s 12.30 pm the following day. That’s 14 hours. For almost all of which – hallelujah! – I’ve been asleep.

Right now I’m obeying the diktats of mind and body. Going with the flow. My mind and body beg me to sleep. So I do. But I don’t think this is a sustainable long-term type of behaviour.

Anyway, the time has come to get up. Get dressed. And get out and deliver. At least my job is bearable; mainly thanks to the short/flexible hours. The low pay is another matter altogether.

Ever since childhood I’ve wanted to dig underground. Indeed, I did so. Which I’ve written about elsewhere on here. But I’ve never worked on the scale I’d like to. Maybe I never will? I don’t know…

But here’s a post on a guy who did. I’ll be honest, he’s clearly an eccentric, or nutjob, even. And if I do ever go underground, as I dream of, I’d hope it’s not in the same ‘hillbilly heap’/mental patient style.

That being said. Teresa and I are clutter-bugs…

Anyway, I discovered this story today. Here’s an interesting article on it, and related matters.

Sadly, but predictably, some folk wish to make more of all this than is actually credible, e.g. the above (from a website calling itself ‘undertheradarcases’, or something similar).

Here are some images of Lyttle’s house, in Hackney, which fell into disrepair. And some of the ‘catacombs’ he dug.

I ought to credit Karen Russo for a number of the subterranean images. Russo talks online about trying to make a film with/about Lyttle, but having to abandon the project, due to his aberrant behaviour – racist, misogynistic, she claims – towards her.

Lyttle’s final years sound awfully tragic. Evicted from his home, forced to live at the top of a tower block (to prevent further tunnelling!), and faced with bills he obviously couldn’t pay, for work the council allegedly carried out make his property safe (removing stuff/filling in holes, etc.).

I’ve read that he knocked through a joining wall in his high-rise prison – his compulsion diminished, but not vanquished – and descended into paranoia and ill health. Eventually dying of ‘natural causes’, in 2010, around the age of 79.

It seems typically heavy-handed that The State should do this to a guy nearing his end. I recently read about an Australian law enforcement fiasco called Operation Painter, in which elderly vulnerable folk were also treated abominably.

In my opinion they should have left him to die in peace, in the home that he clearly loved, in his own weird way. All their brutal interventions did was steal an old man’s home and make a misery of his final years. Way to go!

In 2012 Lyttle’s former home, inc. what remained of some of his tunnels, was bought by artist Sue Webster, who had the place renovated. Read more about that here.