Too Much To Declare

Frankly, I feel almost disappointed.

But today I have felt especially bad.  Energyless, unable to concentrate... I have spent much of the time dozing.  But no high temperature or acute loss of appetite.  At last, this evening my throat is beginning to feel sore.  I'm almost relieved that whatever is wrong with me might be resolving.

Of course all this may be a reaction to the turbulance in my life - my mother ailing, the endless home moving negotiations, and above all the emotions my therapy is throwing up.  (I wish I could expand on this last point, but I'm in no state to do so right now)

This afternoon, if she's strong enough, she wants me to take her to her hairdresser's.  "I want to me meet my Maker with my hair done nicely," she says.

Only now can I see the misdirection,
hers, his, my own -
I needed it to fit a pattern.
How self hating I must have been
to fall for it.

Her eyes were so small
I never fall for a woman with small eyes.
She couldn't help herself
Helping herself to me.

Only now do I dare to let go.
To hell with it.
It was my hell
served up as a gateway to heaven
in a very weak movie
made for cable TV

meanwhile, my e-mail has broken down again.

Thanks to BCUK, I can read Comments posted on my own plog, but Personal Messages, along with all other mail, is lost to me until (probably) Thursday.

today my estate agent not only ungclogged my house's plumbing and profoundly blocked drain this afternoon,

but lowered his commission for selling by over £3,000.

now, I bet half of you are thinking "what's in it for him?"

but I think we have become good friends.

now a half are wondering if he - or both of us - are gay.

not so.

Now I am knackered - so far every other word I've typed has had to be corrected afterwards.  Certainly too tired to choose my words with care and love. 

Suffice for now to say that this morning I re-remembered a love affair, 15 years of my life, and cried - but far less than I need to.

She loved me.  I ran away.

until I started looking

now, at a time

I'd prefer to be asleep,

how boring

so many of my posts are.

I am having my haircut.  The barber's was next to the Bear Inn in Esher.  I could show the shop today if they haven't knocked it down.

When the barber has finished, he always sprays my hair with Brilliantine.  It tickles and makes me laugh. The adults smile indulgently.

But this time, I want to be grown up, so when the spraying starts I burst into tears.

Often when I have cried recently, my mother has taken little notice.  But this time she - and the barber, too - seem genuinely concerned.

That is why I am letting my name be put forward as the next England manager.

My qualifications?  Well, firstly, I have absolutely no interest in football.  I would struggle ot recognise most of the players.  I time my expeditions to the supermarket to coincide with major sporting events.  In the last year, if I saw a headline using the word McClaren, I've assumed it was about Formula 1.

My lack of experience would clearly bring quailties to the job that have hitherto been missing.

Secondly, I do not believe England is a great nation, sporting or otherwise.  Self importance is pathetic if it's totally ungrounded.  We crawl up America's ass, and shit  with contempt on all things EU. We pontificate about global warming, nuclear proliferation, poverty and do sweet FA about it.  We think of ourselves as a model democracy, but retain the House of Lords and the Queen.

We need to lose our illusions, and fight as underdogs.

Like many bloggers, I'm prone to moan.

The weather is dreadful, the days are gloomily short, my sister got on my nerves this morning, I'm sick of listening to condescending announcements on South West Trains...

Blah de blah, blah blah.  There are at least three post in the last paragraph that I am not going to write.

The fact is, I'm a very lucky guy.  I'm not rich, but certainly not dirt poor.  Somehow I have survived the aftrermath of my ridiculously-young-girlfriend experience financiallly and emotionally.  My heallth is not at bad, eyes, ears and hair all work, I am full of life and energy and creative ideas.  I'm an extrovert, social person and have some great friends.

So I woke up this morning ready at last to throw of the mantle of righteous gloom.

Of course - again like hundreds of other bloggers - I have announced too many first-days-of-the-rest-of-my-life before to be taken seriously.

But life is to be lived and not regretted.

This will be my new slogan until I can think of a better one.

god, I am frustrated to day.  I thought overnight I was getting a cold and I don't feel well - but its probably shere irritation that still I haven't reached the point I can exchange contracts and arrange a date to move.  a few minutes ago I got through to my solicitor at the tenth attempt and now it's the weekend.... all we need is the reply to three stupid questions but the sellers just won't get round to answering them.

meanwhile, dozens of ads for viagra - and hundreds of hits from people wanting to see or use the picture of Ian  Brady.

Yes, there I am in google images page 2 for Ian Brady, mass murderer.  The first non Brady image shown.

This may sound wonderfully romantic, except that my parents split up 60 years ago, and my father has been dead for almost 12.

She has lost so much weight.  She is barely eating.  "I don't think I want to die", she says, puzzled rather than alarmed.

My sister is frantic.  She lives 90 minuted drive away, she feels guilty ever moment she doesn't spend with my mum.  But I'm not sure now - unlike before - this is what my mother wants. Perhaps sis's anxiety is smothering her.

We have done everything possible to keep from a home, where she would feel so undignified.  She loves her little house, and with the new grab handles she has few problems with the stairs.  But all the helpers, paid and unpaid me imcluded - she is losing control of her life anyway.  She insists of doing some of her own cooking, but - this lnchtime, for example, almost fell apart...

Anger that I have mostly repressed, barely expressed about how I was used by Vanessa.

Anger about being brought up to be a narcissistic Knight in Shining Armour; being addicted to getting involved with women who are boderline psychotic

Anger that I have let myself be used so many times - my goodwill, my affection.

Fury that whenever I tried to express my rage with Ms V, she treated it as my "anger problem" and I fell for it!

Fury that after so long I still sometimes obsess about what happened.

Fury that, over 3 years later, I still haven't moved and become financially safe again.

Fury that I let Vanessa and her slimey pimpiski get away with it.

(If all this is confusing, this site has a whole library of entries tagged Vanessa)

Now, when I see my mother sit forward in her chair, I wonder whether this is the way she will die, as I watch from the other side of the room.  Or perhaps my back will be turned as I do the washing up.

And I wonder if she wonders, too.

She is very weak, and eats so little.  My sister is convinced our mum's life will be over before Christmas.  My therapist, too, going on what I have told her, thinks my mother has not got long.

But... yet... I am not so sure.  Maybe this is because I am avoiding facing up to the inevitable.  Or, admitting to myself that her death will be a great relief to me as well as a great sadness.I am projecting my fears more than hopes.

On the other hand, she has so much life left in her.

Today, on the phone, she insisted I told her, in detail, all about .....

it's extremely comfortable to sleep on, and needs little maintentainance.  the only downside is that, when full, it is very heavy to move.

YOU have a chance to buy, prior to it being offered on e-bay.  comes with four drawer base....

The purchaser of my house, who is going to rent if off, is ready to exchange contracts. (I had to drop the original purchaser because they dithered and ummed and then demanded a price reduction)

The sellers of the flat in Brighton, having avoided answering important questions about the lease and cost of repairs for months have at last responded.  Exchange of contracts could be imminent. At last.

But there's a but.

They are still expecting too high a price for their flat.  The building society mortgage said it was overpriced and prices have dropped since.  In fact, back in July, the two women selling it took so long to come down from the absurd asking price, that I decided to leave further negotiating to when we were ready to excahnge contracts - ie until now - the "now" that has taken four months to arrive.

But my Mac crashed on Thursday, and it's taken four days to sort out.

Four days off-line!

Devastating.  No posts to read.  No chance to make sarky Comments

I kept writing blogs in my head before I remembered I was unable to post them.  I couldn't even type them into Word, because nothing on my computer was working.  And long-hand writing is an art I haven't practiced for a very long time.  

What did I use to do in my spare moments, before I had