The Price of Coffee and Plastic People

Posted on by
6

The_Price_of_Coffee_and_Plastic_People

She is wearing a red dress today. She tells me that it is the first time she has bought a red dress as she ‘doesn’t wear red’. I say, without any feeling, that I think she looks nice. She thinks that makes me a gentleman, which it does not but I don’t correct her, even if I should.

It started with me looking at her fingernails. The new fad of having them half covered in sparkley bits is something she had succumbed to. After all, she likes to think of herself as ‘young and hip’.

She goes on to say that she is tired of this fad now and has told her manicurist that she won’t be doing it any more. She is going back to short nails with brown. I am not impressed. Brown?, I say in that disgusted voice. Well, Bordeaux, she say. OK, so red then, I reply.

That’s why we talked about the red dress.

She then starts telling me about some film she watched last night. She can’t remember the title. But she’s going to describe it anyway. Already, I can tell that I am going to be bored and what I really want is for her to stop.

It’s the price I pay for a ‘half coffee’, which thing I’ve never actually understood but it’s a ritual for her and I benefit by getting the half coffee.

The film stars Kim Bassinger. She starts to tell me the plot from the beginning. I wonder if the price for my half coffee is actually worth it. I want to go back to my desk. I feign surprise, interest, enjoyment, etc. I briefly wonder if she can actually tell the difference. Would she know the real thing if she came upon it and, anyway, if she did ‘get it’, would it scare her? Would it make her ‘real’? Would she become less ‘plastic’?

And I wonder if, by feigning the responses that she requires, I am becoming more plastic myself?

The price of coffee is expensive, I decide.

Colours are interesting

Posted on by
Reply

Colours_are_interesting

I’ve always thought that colours are interesting in that, what is ‘red’ to me may be an entirely different colour to you. I mean, we all know what red is but that is because, as a child, you are ‘taught’ what name a particular colour is. So, the questions is: when you see red, do you actually see the same colour as me or am I seeing what would be blue or green or something else, in your eyes?

And, last night, Best Mate and I had another lengthy conversation, which was useful for both of us although I’m not certain which of us was more grateful, her or me.

In this lengthy conversation, we talked for a while about feelings. To me, feelings are a bit like colours. Except that they are also like being colour-blind as well.

She was trying to explain her feelings and said, quite rightly, that, unless you had been through what she has been through, there is no way for you to understand.

What was interesting was that, when I was describing my feelings and the problems of how they made me feel physically, she said that she had never had these.

So, are my feelings unique to me? Is it really something I can share with others? I was trying to explain that I was aware that the things that are currently happening to me are as a result of chemicals that my brain is releasing or permitting to be released into my body and why it has left me feeling so crap.

She said she would like to have those feelings. I said I would rather be like her, without them ever. She said they were good (for me). I said that they were terrible and I want it all to stop.

Earlier on in the conversation she had told me to ‘get a grip’. And, the logic side of my brain knows this to be true. The problem, as I explained to her, was/is that my brain starts thinking and then, before I have time to stop it, it has thought the thoughts that it shouldn’t (logically) and off we go again, into this helter-skelter of emotions and almost flu-like symptoms.

I said I would like to ‘get a grip’ and know that I should but I just can’t stop my thoughts, even if I know them to be stupid, pointless and just giving me a hard time for no good reason.

At least, for the while I was talking to her, I felt much better. It would be better if she were physically here although I would probably break down into tears, so, maybe not. I’ve promised to fix this before she comes over.

Let’s hope so.

It’s all about protecting you

Posted on by
Reply

Its_all_about_protecting_you

I wonder, at what point will the British people rise up and revolt, really, against the changes being made to supposedly protect them?

There has been talk before (depending on where you read, of course) of Great Britain becoming a ‘police state’ and yes, it seems that there are some laws or changes that have been made with do cause some disquiet.

However, reading a couple of the latest stories (here and here), as well as numerous blogs (e.g. here), I find it hard to understand what is going on if it’s not turning into a police state.

From what I understood, the police work for us and so do the government (who make the laws upon which the police act). But something seems quite wrong, really, if innocent people, doing things that should> be fairly innocent, are surrounded by coppers thugs, handcuffed in the street for some time and then told, in the end, that it is for their safety.

I’m afraid (and I mean that in the true sense of the word) that, sooner or later, there will be a backlash. Certainly something has to happen. If nothing happens and no one cares enough then it seems like the terrorists won out in the end, destroying the freedom that we enjoyed in the UK by allowing the government (and their strong-arm boys, the Police) to make the UK resemble an old-style Fascist/Communist/Dictatorship state.

However, I’m sure this only happens in the bigger cities, so that’ll be alright, then, won’t it?

I think I may have a strategy

Posted on by
Reply

I_think_I_may_have_a_strategy

I think I may have a strategy to get through this. Actually, it was something that someone mentioned over 20 years ago and it has just come to mind – well been sort of hanging in the background for a day or two.

The strategy is to have something, some project, to focus on and to devote one’s time to. Often, this can be work but I don’t do enough here to be able to do that and, unfortunately, the web stuff won’t do it for me either so it has to be something other than work.

And, then it came to me that, maybe, I could do an Italian thing and, using my contacts, help someone else. It doesn’t really give me anything – except what’s most important which is something to really concentrate on.

So I need to check a few things out and then I will have to ask the person, since the plan that would follow can only be with their agreement. This is, of course, where it may all fail but it’s worth a try as it’s something I am really interested in too.

Let’s hope so as, this morning, it was 3.30 ish when I woke up (because of a ambulance/fire engine siren) and no amount of anything would get me back to sleep!

In other news…..

Posted on by
4

In_other_news_1

I am afraid, in spite of my promise not to post, I still am. However, the bulk of the insanity is now relegated to elsewhere and I am making a serious effort to lighten this one up a bit, not least because it was becoming a bit of a bore.

And so, in other news:

I cannot get really angry with Dino. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I glanced over and saw what looked like something white on the front of my shoes, which I had not put on yet.

I went over to find it was not white on the shoe but rather the floor showing through what should have been the front of my shoe. And they were relatively new shoes too! To be honest they only cost me about €15 from the market and I can always get some more. Whilst I can’t get so angry with him, Dino will be banned to the kitchen until further notice. And he’s been doing so well recently, too!

S, my colleague that I mentioned in the last post, told me that, whilst she was on holiday and her husband still at home, her dog had committed suicide! Stop laughing because, really, it’s not funny. Now, she had told me, in the past that C, her husband, never got on well with Carmilla (the dog – and here, I’m not referring to our latest Princess of Wales). Anyway, S went to the holiday flat with the kids leaving Carmilla and C alone together (he was working). It seems that, at the ripe old age of 15, this resourceful dog, whilst not exactly going into the kitchen, getting a bread knife and slashing whatever her wrists are called, squeezed herself between the railings on the balcony and jumped to her death! I just can’t help but have this sneaking suspicion that C, having had enough, kicked her and, unfortunately, she went flying over the balcony but, obviously, he can’t tell his wife and kids that. However, with her having lived in the same house for 15 years, the idea of jumping off the balcony herself sounds, well, quite absurd.

To go back to the current insanity, just for a moment, for the second morning running, I have been wide awake at about 4.30 a.m. And I don’t seem to feel really tired which I find quite amazing. I don’t start off wide awake but as soon as I start to ‘come to’ I start thinking and that’s the thing I really need to stop, that and the pain-which-is-not-real-pain that causes my stomach to churn and ache as if I am hungry and full to sickness all at the same time. Once I can get those two things sorted, I’ll be fine.

Still, this 4.30 thing has one advantage. I get up and take the dogs out and don’t have to rush. I don’t have to rush over coffee and I don’t have to rush to work, arriving earlier than I have to, meaning that, in theory, I could leave a little earlier, if I wanted.

Finally, I’ve been invited to a party by FfI. Interestingly, during the conversation she mentioned that the Weasel would be there. Is it possible that my lusting after him was noticed after all? You know what women are like with these things whereas us blokes can be pretty useless. Although, I am aware that, in my madness, I don’t quite realise that things I think are ‘secret’ are, in fact, known by everyone around me. This can, of course, lead to much embarrassment later on but I am finding that, being in the middle of such madness means I am incapable of determining when I have crossed that magic, invisible line from being unobserved to slightly, or worse, completely, blatant. I didn’t ask as that would have made it much worse. We wait to see what happens. Let’s hope I can keep myself in check enough.

Saturday morning, I shall have to revisit the market for new shoes. Ho hum.

About Families and Death and stuff

Posted on by
Reply

About_Families_and_Death_and_stuff

S, my colleague, has a father who has the cancer associated with asbestos, with which he used to work. When she first found out she asked me to look on the internet to see what British doctors had to say as she was thinking he should get a second opinion.

I looked for her. It became clear that, in spite of anything she may wish, this was terminal, with or without chemo. I feel sorry for her but in a detached way, as he’s not my father nor is she, really, a friend, for whom I am likely to empathise much more. And, in spite of the fact that she had complained about him and how they didn’t really get along for the last few years, I can see that it is affecting her deeply.

Another friend also has problems with his father, who I have now met. However, he doesn’t really tell me much although I think he’s worried. His father seems to be in and out of hospital most of the time although there seems to be some indication, from what he has told me, that it may be a little hypochondria.

And I wonder, at what point does the parent become like a child? When the child-that-was becomes more concerned over the parents well-being, health, state of mind, etc. than the parents ability to influence the child’s life? And, is the worry more associated with guilt on behalf of the child, rather than anything else? But, and this is just me talking in my own special circumstances, why the guilt? Is it because the child feels they ‘owe’ something to the parent who gave birth and/or nurtured them for the first x years or the blood-thicker-than-water thing (which, obviously, I don’t believe in)?

I have thought about my parents from time to time. I have played the scenario in my head where one of them is on their death-bed and, although seemingly impossible, they find me and I get ‘THE CALL’ – the one that asks me to go to their side.

I wondered why they would do that? To try and make it right, perhaps?

I have also played out the possible two responses. The first being that I would say ‘no’ because if the point was only to satisfy them then that’s not good enough. The second being ‘yes’ because who would ever deny a dying person the right to at least
to fix a problem that’s existed for over 30 years! I mean, with their last dying breath and all!

And would I, at that point, feel the guilt that everyone else seems to feel as their parents approach their last years? I would like to say ‘no’ but if I am to be honest, then I really don’t know.

Of course, the reality is that it would be very difficult to find me. Not because I’ve gone out of my way to make it so but because it has been over 5 years since the last contact with any of my family and, although there are ways they could find me, it would take a great deal of effort and, basically, have to be my sister who worked it all through. After all, I have one ‘advantage’ over some other people – my name is a very common name and there are many people with my name who are much more famous and, therefore, take up most of the Google web search result pages (and, yes, I have looked, as have most people, I would think). Although both this and a conversation recently means I really should take another look to see how difficult it is to find me, If one were to make a determined effort and had some basic information.

And, anyway, going back to the subject, I don’t fool myself that this call will ever come. I cannot believe that after all this time they would want to make it right. What good could it possibly serve?

Thanks to Ico who inspired this post and, in my case, whereas the rest of my family may be on one island (although I believe that they ‘suffer’ the same situation as Ico’s family), certainly, I am on an island well adrift from theirs and so far away that it is over the horizon and, if not in reality, might as well be the other side of the world.

A Night Out with Best Mate

Posted on by
2

A_Night_Out_with_Best_Mate

Best Mate and I went out the other night. Well, it was the same thing but we actually stayed at home. In our own homes. And used Skype with videocam. I drank wine and she drank beer and we chatted and laughed and so on as you do when you’re out for a night on the town. Except we were in our respective bedrooms.

It ended up being for about 3 and a half hours. We had to have a break at one point so she could stock up on beer.

It was necessary. It was good. We talked about everything that’s going on right now, both in her life and mine. I was explaining why I am crazy and what the symptoms and causes were. She understood. She chided me where it was necessary and comforted me also.

It was a good night out with Best Mate…….

……who is looking and feeling much better and that makes me very happy. She will be over again in a few weeks and I am really looking forward to that.

Everything is black or white here (or, rather, left or right)

Posted on by
Reply

Everything_is_black_or_white_here_or_rather_left_or_right

We were sitting, having a coffee after lunch. Not a truly memorable lunch in terms of food but not horrible, just not memorable (even if I can remember it). At least the food itself. The rest of it was as memorable as things get for my memory, or, maybe more so, since I am remembering this.

He selected to have brown sugar and I selected white.

He explained that, here, in this passionate land, everything has a political side, even sugar. Selecting white meant you were right-wing and brown, left-wing. I immediately felt quite guilty with selecting white, not because I am left-wing or right-wing, since I am probably neither but because he might have seen it as being one side or the other and, at this stage in the conversation, I didn’t want these preconceptions clouding anything. He said that he takes no notice of these things but you never know and I didn’t want him to judge me. For me it is a practical choice – I select it, in general, because it dissolves better, especially in Italian coffee which is not boiling as it would be in the UK.

Anyway, it was stupid to feel guilty but there you go.

I mentioned that my colleague at work (who so kindly brought back some Boursault (although the goat variety, so I’m not sure if that will be as good) from her holiday at her house (flat) in the South of France) had told me that there was a perfume that was associated here, in Italy, with the left or right but I could not remember.

I said I would ask her when she came back.

I recalled our conversation. I asked her. Yes, it is true, she said. She could not, immediately remember the correct spelling and I could not find it on-line. Eventually I found it. It is called patchouli oil.

She didn’t believe the ‘sugar’ thing, when I had explained. She went on to say that she hates the smell of patchouli oil – but that is because she is right-wing, I’m almost certain.

For me I hate both strong right-wing and strong left-wing because neither of them allow any middle ground and not everything is black or white but, rather, shades of grey.

And that is true for everything.

I did add, to my colleague that ‘you Italians seem very strange, sometimes’.  I’m sure I am strange to them so we’re all equal on that score.

The Killer Car Wash

Posted on by
Reply

The_Killer_Car_Wash

One of the funniest posts TSM has made.  Excerpt below:

As I walk away, I hear screaming coming from the car wash.  I happily ignore it.

Bombshell: “Their car wash is work now”
Me: “I think so, they’re screaming”
Bombshell: “Screaming?”
Me: “Yeah, I think the car wash is killing them.”
Bombshell: “Shame”
Me: “I know”

I send an email but don’t send a text

Posted on by
1

I_send_an_email_but_dont_send_a_text

I’m afraid the madness is still upon me. The kitchen is full of the smell of something – and, initially I can’t quite tell what, though the smell is familiar. And then I realise it is the melon I bought, just-in-case, for the dinner last night.

A colleague at work got me some Boursault cheese from France earlier this week. I had invited FfI and another friend (in fact, the one who first introduced us to FfI – FfC) for dinner but really to taste the cheese with some crispy baguette and good wine but we couldn’t seem to work it out and so, FfI and her friend who has a shop in Isola were to come round last night.

I got home and, after seeming to break the hoover, I went to make the Special Salad (that used to be made by my Father) which, I am told is called Cob Salad in the States, to find that the fridge seemed not to have been working well, if at all. Maybe the door wasn’t shut properly. I had to go and by more salad stuff as the stuff in the fridge, in one day, with the heat, had become mushy. During the day, FfI had also invited her other friend so there were to be four of us.

Buying new stuff meant that I was a little later than planned and, therefore, rushed. FfI is moving again. She has to. She cannot afford the current flat and has found another which, in my opinion, she will be able to unafford equally as much.

She phoned to say that she was on her way round with the Friend with the shop and some guy who was giving them a lift but would not be staying. She had had a meeting with her current landlord and it had taken longer than expected so they were bringing nothing other than themselves. I told her that we needed bread for the cheese as that was one of the things she had promised to bring but that I had wine.

It was all going to pot but I just didn’t care. I had posted a comment on a blog that I instantly regretted and sent an email to a friend that I also instantly regretted. The madness remains. I promise myself that I won’t do that anymore.

They arrive with some bread (though it is not quite right it will do). Everything is not quite right but it will do, suffice, be enough – but is never good enough to be good.

The guy is some estate agent (realtor) in Milan. He found the new flat for FfI who uses her womanly charms every chance she gets, since she is not unattractive for her age and, being who she is, is forward enough to use it well although I never cease to be amazed at how gullible these men are to fall for the ‘trick’. He is of average height, very slim and, kind of, weaselly. I don’t dislike him but I don’t like him either. I don’t know him, of course.

He is, it seems, shy and holds back. The other two are concerned that I am not happy. They are right, of course but although they are friends, I can tell them nothing. I tell them that I am fine, just a little tired (which is not exactly untrue). Everyone is always tired in Italy and so one can use it as an excuse at any time.

Since the Weasel is not staying and the kitchen table is laid up for four, I suggest we first have a drink in the lounge. We open the first bottle.

The Weasel is talking to the Friend with the shop. It’s all in Italian and I really can’t be bothered to try to understand. I think they are talking politics. It turns out later that, although he is not a big fan of Buzz Lightyear, he is anti-left. I decide that’s the problem everywhere, but particularly here. People aren’t for anything, only anti something. I would like to talk that through with someone but always feel out of my depth here, not really knowledgeable enough to have a serious discussion. Still, it’s my feeling.

We open the second bottle of wine. The Weasel will take just another, small glass, apparently.

FfI seems upbeat about the new flat and a new job. I always feel she is upbeat but, behind the facade, she isn’t. It’s always a facade and I wish it weren’t. It’s an American thing, I think. It’s like the ‘Have a nice day’ thing. Behind it there is nothing.

The other friend, who was coming but not eating (after I had prepared the salad too) arrives. At least she has a bottle of wine.

She is also American and Jewish and truly over-the-top but I like her for her honesty. She was the first (maybe, only) person who correctly guessed that V & I had split up even when we were still pretending and not having told anyone. And she is not really a close friend. I am amazed by her perspicacity and admire her for that and her honesty, even if she will never be a close friend.

I offer more wine and the Weasel will just have one more. It is getting late. FfI had said it would not be a late night. It is already gone nine. The Weasel is making no signs of movement out of here. I suggest, to someone, that, perhaps we should do the cheese anyway, thinking that, perhaps, the Weasel will take the hint.

I get the cheese and cut the bread and bring it into the lounge. Everyone seems to love it which is, kind of, galling since, although I wanted them to like it, I watch it disappear too quickly and, for a moment, wish I had never mentioned it and been alone and had been able to eat it all myself.

We finish the cheese. I offer more wine. The Weasel will just have a little more. He is getting drunk and seems to be slurring his words slightly but I can’t place his accent and maybe it’s that. I give up on the idea that he will be going. I explain that there are only four salads. FfI will share with someone, the someone is the A/J, over-the-top friend who keeps exclaiming that she shouldn’t be eating and especially cheese, as she should lose weight (which is true) but has done a damn fine job of gobbling the cheese anyway.

We go in the kitchen. I offer more wine. The Weasel will have just a little more. He had taken off his tie in the lounge, earlier. He had opened his shirt a button or two (it is hot) but I notice that he had opened it more and I look at his chest with some longing, for although he really isn’t my type, I know of the madness which I described in a much earlier post as me ‘being vulnerable’ which was stupid really as it’s me being unable to control this madness. I could jump him right now but I won’t, thank goodness.

We eat. FfI so likes the salad (or, maybe, having no money, ever, has not eaten for days, I don’t know) eats what remains of the Friend-with-the-shop’s salad as well. I eat it but it’s not as good as it should be, the oranges not being enough nor good enough – but it will do. I want them all to leave.< All the meat is eaten. More wine. Friend-with-the-shop's husband comes over. He is nice and I like him. He makes a fantastic deer sauce for pasta. I have said, in the past, that I would marry him for that, although I could not, of course. It's just one of those jokes - jokes you can do when you're not physically attracted to someone and, therefore, you can, kind of, flirt with them in safety. Like I can do with women. He has some wine too but only a little as he is driving. He is sensible and half the height of his wife and Italian and white (and she is black) and, together, they look......well......, I think you can guess. I offer what liqueurs I have. There is a little Sambuca, some Amaretto, and an unopened bottle of port - good port. Friend-with-the-shop, who is English, would like some port, the others wanting one of the others. I bring out the bottles and the shot glasses. I tell Friend-with-the-shop that this is nice port. Now everyone wants to try. The Weasel, has a glass. Then another, then another, then, after some consideration, just a little more. I wonder, as I look at him, if he will stay behind a little, after the others have gone and wonder if he has stayed so long, so far, because he fancies me rather than, the most likely reality, that he has stayed because of the women where he has misinterpreted their flirting, since he is the sometime boyfriend of a friend of the Friend-with-the-shop (I do hope you can keep up with this). I know I am in the middle of this madness and hope that it doesn't show and am grateful that, at least, I recognise it in myself and can, I hope, keep my bloody mouth shut and not say anything I will regret in the morning. Whilst we were sitting at the table, during the port, the subject came up about the 'gayness of Italian men'. The Weasel explains that this is true but only of men from the south, Northern Italian men are not like this. I realise he is annoyingly stupid and racist and right-wing and hate him for that whilst his open shirt and the fact that he doesn't speak English means that, in bed, it wouldn't matter one bit. I am annoyed by myself for this insanity and desperation, for my lack of control over my feelings, for knowing that, almost (but not quite) any man will do. And I know it's not the sex, per se, but, rather, the closeness that I desire (although for certain, the sex would be important for that is the ultimate closeness even if it would leave me unsatisfied for not being true closeness). We move back to the lounge and finish the port. It's now 2 a.m. and I tell FfI that everyone will have to go. I am not V and the time has come for me to go to bed. I toy with the idea of going to bed anyway and let them continue and let themselves out (except they could not lock up and, so, I don't do that). They leave at 2.30 ish. The Weasel is not staying after all, although he does look at the dirty dishes and starts to try to help clean up and I tell him no because I will do it in the morning and, so, they all leave. I hold his arm, for a moment as we're saying goodbye and wish I could hug him but, even as I think this, I know there is no magic, no sensation in this touch, no thrill like there would be would be with a lover or potential lover. But at least it's some physical connection with a man, with someone other than women. And, now, I should go to bed but I go to the computer and the friend has replied to the email and, with the madness upon me and the promise to myself about to be shattered (see, I can't even keep my own promises with this insanity), I reply even though my head, the logic side, says I should not and I am too drunk and too tired but I reply anyway and then, as if the madness has not gone far enough, I write a text message to try and explain the email reply, which I have already regretted as soon as I pressed send because I realise that English is such a crap language and that even as I write the words, which, because I say them as I write them, gives them meaning which, when written and read by someone else, with a different voice, with different inflection, different tones, different, different, different.......means that the meaning has gone and the meaning becomes something else and I hate that and want that to be different; and so I regret the words I have written but can't take them back, for the words I have written now seem far too much if read in a certain way, without a smile, without humour and, yet, I didn't want to put smiley faces all over the email and, so, they, the words will be read wrong, and that's why I've done this text and, at the last minute, I delete it and I will, at least, be so grateful that I did when I get up in the morning because writing more words to explain the words before will not explain the words before because they are words that will be read in a different way to the way they were intended to be read because the previous words have already set the pattern. So, I will be grateful tomorrow that I didn't make the situation even more shitty. This much I know. And it is morning (but too late to do the things I intended) and the madness has gone and now my mind has to deal with the madness of yesterday and trawl through it trying to make more sense and being so grateful for not making a play for the Weasel and so much more grateful for not sending my friend the text even if I so want to explain properly, but with the voice, which, you know, if you read my stuff, is more important than anything, since I can put the real meaning to the words. And the dogs want to go out but I just want to stay in the flat, with the shutters closed, with just me, without having to have human interaction, for fear of the madness and losing control completely but also because it means putting on a show that I don't want to do. So we go out but we don't go to the park and I take the quieter streets so as to see as few people as possible, just in case someone should know me or, anyway, want to talk, or strike up conversation at which point I would pretend not to understand Italian at all but always with the danger, here, that they would speak English or be English and want that conversation anyway.

I am lucky. There is no one who wants the conversation and we do not go to the normal café or even past it as the dogs know it and always try to go to sit at a table and we arrive home.

There is a text from FfI. She enjoyed it last night and the salad and that the Weasel thought I was nice (but not nice enough to go to bed with although that too I would have regretted this morning in the same way I have with the stupid emails, the near text and all the other things I do with this madness upon me). I have been here before, 20 odd years ago.

And, I wonder, was last night just punishment from her to me for the fact that I didn’t text her or come round or help her with the problems of the unaffordability of the current flat or just to ‘get back at me’? And I find that I really don’t care, even if I now need to get more wine and more port and more stuff. After all, that is just stuff.

And, so, I said I wouldn’t write more posts but that was the sanity talking, which only happens in the morning before I have had the hours to think, which I must find a way to stop before I do some real damage. And so I write yet another rambling post to try and pour out my feelings – not even to be read, really, just to try and get the bloody things out of my head as if, by writing them they will disappear, which they do in a way but not enough and this time it simply will not do.

And I realise that I must talk to someone about this. And there is one person I want to talk to about this, as if this person can straighten me out (so to speak) but that can’t happen and so, unwillingly but desperately, I text Best Mate, who can’t talk right now but does, at least, recognise that something is wrong and phones me and I explain that I’m crazy and that I must talk and she say she will be back later and will be over in August anyway and I laugh and explain that I really don’t think I can wait until August ‘cos that’s weeks away and the madness is now and increasing and that I’m sorry to put this burden on her but I have no one else and she understands (or says she does) and I believe her because I think I can hear it in her voice because, after all, the tone and the way the words are spoken actually really express it all.

And we agree to Skype later.

And so, because the madness is abated at the moment I will not post this straight away but will hold it ready and, maybe, after the conversation with Best Mate will not post it, or maybe I will and then delete it later or not. But I feel I should post it because this blog has become some sort of place where I try to………no, I don’t know what I’m trying to do anymore.

It will do.