Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….


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BOYS WILL BE BOYS

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You know what they say about old habits dying hard?

Well it’s a cliche for a reason.  And it’s especially hard to challenge them when they’ve been over a half a decade in the making.

As anyone who follows this blog will know that I haven’t always had a great relationship with my family, and you will also understand why.

But of late, my relationship with my brother James is OK.

Distant, even more distant since I’ve been in financial dire straights, but whenever we see one another we’ve managed to have a nice time and while away a couple of hours or so before the other has to go home.

And I’m regularly invited to spend Christmas with him and his family.  Mainly because it’s traditional, and the fact that I’m ‘Aunty Present’ and, until this year, brought lots of goodies for all to enjoy.

But apart from that, my presence isn’t really required.  Oh I’m welcome, in theory, to go spend the weekend with them.  Subject to approval and with the proviso that I might need to entertain myself as they all go about their business, and treat me with about as much interest as the family gerbil (who eventually died of starvation/dehydration, poor thing).

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And if there’s a formal family thing with long lost rellies, I’ll be required to rock up, despite the fact that the venue is about 400 miles away from my home (and 40 from theirs) and that I have to spend a total of 8-9 hours on the motorway, and money (that I haven’t got) to eat at a shit restaurant whose sole USP is the ability to acquire faux fillets made up of re-consituted poultry skin/scrag/ligament mush that has been combined with water and additives, moulded, frozen, defrosted, cooked and presented to the unsuspecting diner as a chicken breast, smothered in some kind of white jizzy goop that itself masquerades as some kind of cheese sauce. With chips of course.

Classy.

Other than that, I am apparently obsolete.  Peripheral.  Forgettable.

And every now and then I’ll see evidence on Facebook or via some other social media platform that he and my cousin and their respective broods have all got together at each others homes or gone on some jolly outing or other without inviting me.

And it hurts.

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When we were kids, my brother hated me (and in turn I hated him back), and turned to our cousin (who lived walking distance away) for succour and companionship which is probably one of the reasons that I’m the fuck up of the family and he isn’t.  Because even though our shared childhood was not the best, our mother loved him and he had Jack, so he was never alone.  Being the same sex, there’s was a natural bond, as was the habit of turning on me, an obvious target, to mock, jeer at, and pick fights with.

Me?  I had no one, not even a best friend once I turned geek, and I have forever felt like I am on the outside looking in.

And neither Jack nor James were ever encouraged to include or be kind to me.

They were lads.  And lads didn’t play with girls oop North, so they were let off the hook so to speak.

And as we came into our teens, and I strived to find some tribe to fit in with (be it mod, punk, new romantic), this was an endless source of amusement for this smug twosome, who, yes you’ve guessed it, went to uni, found a lovely inclusive brainbox peer group to join, and more life long friends to bolster their egos and emotional security.

I however flitted from one incarnation to another, and do so to this day.

Because I have no real clue who I am.

Over the years, I did form something of a relationship with my cousin, and once upon a time you could have called us ‘close’ as he would tell me things he couldn’t share with Jack, but when my brother and I fell out for 3 years, I was left in no doubt where I was in the family hierarchy.

No I couldn’t come for Christmas, Easter or Bank Holiday.  What were my motives?  Was I doing this to wind up Jack?

They could see me in March, some random weekend or a cold wet day in January; wouldn’t that be special?

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And after Jack and I eventually made up, I was no longer the black sheep of the family hence James welcomed back into the fold and was invited to everything!

Hurray!

Except I was indignant, bruised and in no mood to be humoured.

Nowadays everything has gone back to normal and I’m back on the outside looking in.  And today I made one last try to connect with my family, find out when the next big hoo ha would be, and get myself invited to it via my sister in law.

She sounded defensive and perplexed.

‘Why do you ask?  When?  What are you thinking?  Here, Jack’s, yours, somewhere in the middle?’

(In other words ‘What do you want from us exactly? Anyone would think you were family or something!’)

‘I honestly don’t mind Jen, I just thought it would be nice for us to all catch up sometime.’

‘Well Jack and James have just been away, we’re off doing something else Easter with my sister (oh the irony), then I’m back at work, Jack is blah blah blah……….but maybe we’ll catch up in August 2020 when I might be in London?’

Hey ho.  After over half a decade of being second tier, why did I ever think it might change?

It would be easier to get Clark Kent and Superman in the same room at one time.

I get it.  i genuinely do.  Spending time together for them comes naturally.  They’re more brothers than Jack and I were ever siblings. They both have kids.  They live quite close to one another.  Lots of their get togethers are probably arranged quite spontaneously.

I, however, take effort.  Not to mention that fact that I’m a little….

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….and unpredictable nowadays. What if I rained on their lovely fraternal parade?

As for the bullying, I suppose kids are kids, and they didn’t know how damaging an effect their behaviour would have on me.

Boys will be boys.

And lets face it they weren’t the only ones who picked on me.  Once you’re being victimised it’s like you send out a high pitch signal that unleashes the dogs of war onto you.  It’s like those bastards can sniff the vulnerable out and let rip knowing you will take their shit.

To this day though, any word or story of bullying is guaranteed to get my hackles up.

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In a recent episode of ‘The Gift’ one man, Jon, who bullied and beat up on another boy, Simon, at school for 10 years, suddenly got guilt pangs and sought him out via the show to apologise, wanting forgiveness.

90% of the British public were touched by his efforts and sniffled sentimentally into a Kleenex.

The other 10% (yes, me included) wanted his blood.

I’m sorry but who the actual fuck did he think he was to seek Simon out demanding forgiveness?  What brought on this sudden retrospective stab of conscience?  Why should he be made to feel better about his vile behaviour?

Miraculously though, when they finally came face to face on a pier, Simon (a big bruiser of a man nowadays) to my huge disappointment, didn’t smash him in the face, pick him up by the scruff of his neck, shake him like a rag doll and throw him into the sea.

He forgave him.

Jon, you are lucky it wasn’t me you sought pardon from as I’d have kicked you so hard that your balls would be jostling for position alongside your tonsils to this very day.

<sigh…>

I have such a long way to go.

Have I forgiven my tormentors, including John and Jack?  I thought I had.  But clearly it goes so much deeper than that.  And maybe they sense this.

Time to stop misting up that window and pawing at that door.

It was never my place to begin with.

Aunty C and the shrinks are right.  My sense of home and belonging has to start with me.

Back to the drawing board.

Namaste x

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b053kxhs

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PITY PARTY TRACK 21 – BREATHE ME – SIA

I’ve always been a bit obsessed with Six Feet Under.

I own the boxed set and have just finished watching all five series (seasons) for about the third time, and the finale always stays with me for days, hence this song stuck in my head on repeat.

Because I’m also obsessed with death, plus I totally and utterly envy the fictitious, feckless, fucked up Fishers.

Because despite their disputes, down times and dysfunctional behaviour, they are a proper family.

They fuck up time after time, they fall out, make up, make the most appalling choices for themselves, are promiscuous to a man/woman, but they are family.  That creepy house come funeral home with its coach house, dated decor, antiquated kitchen always has room for everybody, with a constant influx of the living and dead alike, and they all ebb and flow like the ocean that features so significantly in the dream sequences, so that it’s almost like a living, breathing entity.

Plus they all seem to have plenty of time to hang around smoking pot without ever getting busted.

Not to mention Ruth’s crazy, pill popping sister Sarah has an amazing flower power domicile somewhere out in the sticks, and has a constant stream of hippy friends popping in to dance around the bonfire naked.

And when I saw all the women standing around the body of Fiona their fallen sister singing ‘Calling All Angels’, I, like Ruth longed for that kind of intimacy on a permanent basis.

Who lives like this?  Can I live like this?  Where is this fucking place anyway?

Because what is left of my family is strewn across the UK.  And my friends are either estranged or busy with their hectic 9-5 (or rather 8-8) existence, and I am lonely.

Wrap me up.

Today I walked to town and back.

So what, you might ask?

Well I did my 10,000 steps and its the first real bit of exercise I’ve done this year.

The Fishers made me do that.  Well watching Nate (the bastard) collapse after shagging that awful Maggie and wake up with stroke symptoms, and then die, might have spurred me on a bit. 🙂

And I know for a fact that I’m not going to find my very own utopia sat at home on the couch with the cats living vicariously through the Fishers.

So tomorrow, I’ll take a deep breath, and do it again.

And try not to lose myself again.

Namaste x


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HUBBLE, BUBBLE, YARN & TROUBLE

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Today I have been mostly sighing.

I reiterate – sighing.

Not crying.

Despite things not going so great of late, I was doing OK.  I’ve been doing a bit of buddhist meditation and trying to accept my fate and was staying on a relatively even keel, until I went to my first Schema Therapy session.

To clarify, whilst this was my first session, it was the group’s second meeting, because, after all that angst filled waiting, I managed to miss the first one because I’d got the dates mixed up.  I’m pretty sure they (the two shrinks) thought I’d done it deliberately but I hadn’t.

One day seems very much like the next when you don’t have a life.

So, when I rocked up last Thursday, they were very effusive when welcoming me to the flock.

But I don’t trust them.  Partly because (as the scorpion said to the frog) it’s my nature, and partly because I haven’t forgotten them pretending my financial situation didn’t exist and that this would ensure that I was going to be there for the entire two years.  I was quite frankly amazed that someone so intelligent and well qualified would resort to behaving like an ostrich.  Well I’ve told ’em and if they still choose to pretend that my imminent departure isn’t happening, that’s their funeral.

Also, the list of participants they showed me were women and there are men in this group. That’s going to be awkward further down the line.

The first, my first, session started with the ‘bubble’ exercise where we had to close our eyes and visualise being in a lovely bubble that none of our worries or anything bad could penetrate and where we were safe, at least for the 90 minutes we were at the hospital.

My friends, there are only so many things that a bubble can repel.  And an gang of burly baliffs would smash that motha to pieces, so I stared at the carpet by way of compromise and played along.

We then did this thing with a ball of yarn where we had to say our name wrap the yarn around our hand then throw it to someone else, until everyone was tied together, thus illustrating the unshakable bond between us.

Oh God, how I itched to take the piss out of it, so when they asked us what it looked like, I kept schtum.

But then they had to ask me, of all people, what I saw.

‘It looks like a pentagon.’

‘Ah yes’ enthused Shrink No. 1, ‘I can see that, so it’s like we’re points on a star?’

‘No.  A pentagon.’  As used in black masses? Fortunately I managed to keep that bit in my head.

Then, ten minutes in when one of the girls got emotional, Shrink No. 2 broke out some lengths of felt fabric for us to cuddle and link between us to signify softness, and a comforting bond.

What the absolute fuck?  Is anyone actually falling for this shit?

Well yes they were.  From what i could tell, I was the only cynic amongst them.  And that’s when the penny dropped.

Even in an entire group of misfits and outsiders, I’m the outsider.

That’s no mean feat is it?  Practically something to be proud of.

Except all I felt was despair.

I have nothing in common with the others.  I’m older, from a different area, a different background, and I’ve had lots of therapy over the years, whereas all the jargon, tools and visualisations seem to be new and wonderful to these people.

It’s not their fault but my trust in them is zero.  How can I bear my soul here?

On the plus side, I kind of feel that I might be able help them, and in that sense, help myself.

At one stage I pulled out my bottle of water for a drink and copped a worried grin from No. 2, then when one of the girls asked if she could drink from her flask of tea, everyone froze.

‘Um…’ said No. 1, ‘well, what does the rest of the group think?’

Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

‘Yes’ chimed in No. 2, ‘I think this should be a group decision.’ She nodded gravely.

Sorry?  It’s green tea, not methadone!

I had to pipe up.

‘I’m sorry but it didn’t even occur to me that drinking wouldn’t be allowed’ I said incredulously ‘I get very dehydrated from my meds, and can’t go 90 minutes without water, so as long as it’s not a can of Guinness, I don’t see what the problem is?’

The group burst out laughing and even the shrinks allowed themselves a faint smile.

‘Yes, well if everyone’s OK with that, we’ll agree that you can bring drinks into the group.’

Oh, goodie, goodie gumdrops.  Am I going to have to put my hand up to go wee wees too?

I reported back to Aunty C and she laughed.

‘Try not to rubbish it too much and see what you can get from it.’

I took that on board and congratulated myself on surviving the first session.

Except I haven’t.

Today I watched brave, ballsy Lynda Bellingham’s (British actress) final interview, when she spoke of her incurable bowel cancer and her resigning herself to imminent death, but was planning one last Christmas with her loved ones before popping her clogs.

But it never worked out that way as she died on Sunday.

And here’s me planning the most Scroogy Christmas I can because I feel unloved and let down by my family.

If I had to describe that moment, I don’t think I can do it justice, but I felt a combination of shame, sadness, anger, envy, shame, resentment and pain.

I didn’t cry but I can feel all those unshed tears lodged in my thorax again, and I keep doing those big shaky sighs that you do when you’ve bawled your eyes out.

Maybe it’s a matter of time.  I just pray God that it doesn’t happen there.

Maybe I’ll go and see the Munsters at Crimbo after all.

Namaste x

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/lynda-bellingham-final-appearance-loose-women


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ZIPWIRE

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So, surprise, surprise, my old mucker FEAR has snuck back in to the crevice created by my tears and made a rather predictable appearance late last night.

Just as I was about to tidy up, turn off the TV and go to bed I realised that I had concertinaed up my body and was frantically biting down hard on my knuckle, every muscle of my body tense with dread and anticipation.

And, coward that I am, I quickly bottled on my resolution, and downed the tab of Sertraline I should have taken that day, waited for it to take effect, then got into bed, curling myself into a tight foetal position.

Then came the dream.

I’m in a hot country with my friend Jon and we happen upon some kind of attraction/activity, and when we get up closer I see that it’s some kind of zip wire contraption running between two little pod like rooms with a walkway that you have to walk over to get from one to the other, a bit like a motorway service station flyover. Below is a steep fall onto crags and rocks, but there is a sign saying that whoever crosses it wins $1M.  I distinctly remember that part as I was trying to figure out what that is in sterling.  There is a duffle bag filled with notes.  No one touches it.

I turn to look at Jon, but he’s a way back staring at me blankly.

It it true?  What are the legalities of it?  Will they really pay out if someone takes up the challenge?

Then I notice that the wire sags flabbily in the middle and that there is no security harness, just two handles to hang onto as you cross, as you dangle over the rocks below.

Everyone just stares at it. 

I’m thinking of how this prize will solve all of my problems.  I’d be able to pay off my mortgage, move to the coast and start again.

Again.

I look around again for Jon, but he’s talking to the others, not paying me any attention.

Then I think ‘Fuck it’ and go to pull the handles to my end via a pulley  and park my stuff next to the duffle bag.  As I do this there is some kind of commotion in the opposite pod as a stocky dark haired man dressed in white arabic robes gets up and peers across at me through the glass of the pod.

Trip trap, trip trap

I don’t like him.

His eyes

He’s creeping me out.

I know I’m not going to do it.

Then I wake up as one of the cats starts chewing my hair, keening for his breakfast.

God I feel shit today.  And piss weak to boot.

Why do bad days always follow good?

Who am I kidding?  Every day is the same, it’s like frigging Groundhog Day with a sarf London twist, and I’m going to go seriously doolally if I don’t get out of here.  Apart from the odd couple of days here and there, I haven’t this friggin’ cell for over a year now, and it’s really getting to me.  My friend has a place by the coast, and even though it’s usually unoccupied, for whatever reason he’s really weird about any of us using it, and I’m too proud to hint or ask him about it anymore.

I need the sea air in my hair, the sun on my body, and a different set of walls to stare at, and my credit card is bouncing around in my bag excitedly.

‘You don’t have the money!’

‘What about your mortgage?’

‘Get a job first!’

‘Don’t do it Sista!’

But I’m in a dangerous mood, fed up of relying on the kindness of others and tired of being afraid.

What is it with me and tightropes?

Oh bollocks to it, what’s the worst that can happen?  You’re a long time dead…

25 DAYS OF SONGS CHALLENGE: DAY 10 – A SONG BY MY FAVOURITE BAND

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I’m gonna be brief, because I’m in a frustrated, angry, what’s-the-point kinda mood and there’ll be no shifting it for a good while as far as I can tell.

I don’t have a favourite band.

I like lot’s of bands. But I love the Dan and we don’t hear enough of them, so I’m choosing this, for no other reason than I love it and despite being a failer/bailer/self jailer in all aspects of my life, I didn’t want to miss a day on this challenge.

Enjoy x


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WHAT WOULD STEPHEN DO (WWSD)?

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It’s clear to me that I can’t really drink alcohol anymore.

It’s just not worth the repercussions.

Anyway this is all Stephen Sutton’s fault.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided that it would be a good idea to cut out a photo of him and stick it to my fridge, so that if I was stressing, grizzling, crying, feeling sorry for myself, worried about something, inwardly dying etc. I could look at it, take inspiration and ask myself ‘What would Stephen do?

Great idea, huh?  I was quite chuffed with myself for coming up with that.  Who wouldn’t snap out of their shit and pull their finger out at the sight of Stephen beaming kindly at them through his specs?

Trouble was, as day turned into night, it started to make me feel a bit paranoid.

I used to have a friend who was big into a form of yoga and meditation that is run by a big ass, almost corporate organisation in the US, and for a while, I dabbled with it too.  Andy, delighted, dragged me along to a group satsang with him one evening, and whilst some of the devotees looked a bit out of it and zombie like, I loved the sense of community, the chanting and the meetings, and the mail out correspondence course that landed on my mat every month did seem to be spookily relevant to my life at any given time.

Then one day, Andy gave me a framed photograph of his guru as a gift.  And whilst it looked very nice at the makeshift alter in my bedroom, I was uncomfortably aware of her eyes following me around the room a la Mona Lisa, and her expression had changed from being lovely and ‘Ohm’ to being rather ‘Hmmm…’.

As in ‘Hmmm, you don’t fool me dear, not for one second…’

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And she freaked me out so much that I had to take it down and put it away in a drawer, where it probably is still to this day (ridiculously I didn’t dare chuck it out), and I gradually moved away from that particular cult, I mean, sojourn in my life.

And now, 20 years later, I appear to be getting ‘Hmms’ from my Hero, SS.

And it made me really twitchy and restless.

So much so that I really started to want a drink.

Not just a small beer.

Not just a modest glass of wine.

I’d remembered that I had a nearly full bottle of sloe gin left over from Christmas.

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I know.  I know, I know, I know

But just for once, I just wanted to get shit faced.  I didn’t want to meditate, I didn’t want to pray, I didn’t want to actively forgive and I didn’t want to think about anything.

I just wanted that warm, buzzy, muzzy, fuzzy feeling, to watch the sharp edges of the world magically blur and to stagger off to bed and disappear into dreamless unconsciousness.

It only took two glasses.  I was always a bit of a lightweight, but nowadays I’m beyond pathetic.

My vision swam, the edges blurred, and when I finally retired, I crashed spark out and didn’t wake up till morning.

And I felt awful.

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Not hungover or headachy.

Just as if all the bad stuff in the world had seeped into my being, leaving me, in turn, indifferent, angry, resentful, sad, lonely, hopeless, hated and hateful.

Today was the hottest day in the UK this year, and I’ve spent it indoors, swaddled up in fleecy gym wear and swigging hot mugs of tea, staring mindlessly at my computer screen.

And I still feel cold.

And now the sun has set and I feel so alone.

Even my friend/foe the moon is nowhere to be seen.

And that bottle of gin in the cupboard is keening and calling to me.

I really want some.  I just want this fucking day to end.

It’s not fair!  I barely drink anything compared with my friends!

But I know it’s to do with it clashing with my meds.

I go out to the kitchen, and there he is, smiling at me, eyes a twinkle.

‘You needn’t start giving me evils either’ I mutter to myself, ‘I bet you caned it big style of a Saturday night!’

Yes, but he was a teenager, Sista!

The smile seems to widen, and I remember what he’s doing there.

It’s hard when someone less than half your age makes you feel twice the degenerate.

I put the gin back in the cupboard, put the kettle on and wonder grimly how long it will take me to get to sleep tonight without any booze.

God I could do with some spliff.

Just as well they don’t sell that at my Sainsburys.

Well it’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from him.

Namast-frigging-ste. x

DEATHWISH 2001

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It was a bit of a sad day yesterday.

I’d been experiencing the inevitable guilt fest people like me go through when someone young, vital, and full of love dies.
God alone knows why he takes the ones that want to stay, and keeps those of us that would be thrilled to be beamed up Star Trek style to the great beyond down here.

Yesterday young Stephen Sutton finally died at the heartbreaking age of 19, after a four year battle with cancer, who, before thumbing a lift to the afterlife, raised a staggering £3.2m (and rising as we speak) for the Teenage Cancer Trust by working his way through a 46 item bucket list and being sponsored along the way, after having been told that his cancer had spread and that he didn’t have long to live.

Whilst most people (i.e. me) would have, on diagnosis, sighed pitifully, settled back under the duvet (assuming I ever emerged from it in the first place) and intermittently slept and stared wistfully into space whilst everyone (I don’t know ‘Who?’ OK? Just go with this willya?!) ran around doing shit for me.

I might have stretched myself a little by planning an Ealing Comedy style will/inheritance challenge scenario to torment my family after my demise, pitting them against one another whilst alive by way of pre match training. 🙂

But that would be it.

Not this kid. He was a fucking whirlwind and did not waste one second of his life.  He grabbed it by the throat and made it work for him and for those in his position, and had a blast doing it.  Did being in pain, sick, nauseous or weak get in his way?

Not for one single moment.

He even completed his exams and got A*s aplenty in the process.

And whilst he’s been doing this?

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I’ve been vegetating away at home doing squat for pretty much two years.

Oh the shame…

I and others with mental health issues have no doubt wished for death at least a couple of thousand times in our lifetimes; and it still happens.  I do try not to because (a) it doesn’t work, (b) it’s an affront to people who are dying and very much want to live, and (c) unless I am woman enough to crash the party and boogie along to the mortal coil shuffle, it ain’t happening.

I did it again yesterday though.  One more time.

As I’d have given anything to take this kid’s place.

Not for me. But for him.  Because for less than 2o years, the world was a better place with him in it.

And my heart aches for his mother and loved ones.

If you are trying to guilt me into taking an active part in life God, it’s starting to get to me, y’hear!

I had to go to the dentists today and be fitted with some god awful medieval oral contraption in order to stop me gnashing my remaining teeth to chalk.  Mincy (https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/04/24/rubberneckers-of-the-world-unite/) went to great pains to be nice to me again, bless him, and I feel vile for judging him before.  Anyway it was hardly a barrel of laughs but at least it got me out of the house.

Afterwards I must have walked for miles and miles. Rain was forecast and I didn’t have a brolly, but whilst the dark clouds were never far away, I didn’t get wet.  And as I walked I tried for once to see the good stuff and be thankful and mindful.

The sun on my pallid little phis.  The breeze in my hair.  The soundness and solidity of my body.

My back didn’t ache.  My head didn’t hurt.

I wasn’t the person over the road being screamed at by his scary, chavvy partner.

A toothless, snot nosed little cherub beamed at me as I walked past.

I got a cheeky wink from a huge roofer as I passed under some scaffolding (what is it with me and big, dirty geezers?!).

My freshly washed cotton trainer socks were not rolling up and chafing my heels like they usually do.

The way my stomach relaxed as a long, luxurious, silent-but-deadly fart exited my body as I passed a gang of surly looking school kids <Man!  You is rank!>.

And my fully functioning, almost full , hot water bottle of a bladder, insistently reminding me to stop for a loo break already.

Nothing is perfect.

At least I didn’t wet myself.

And I am here.

An animated, corporeal lump of meat, bones and blood perambulating along the street.

Alive.

And for once? Bordering on grateful.  Or at least trying to be.

I catch a late lunch and sit in the late Spring sun, nursing a latte, pondering my next move, and when I think about the last year, some things have changed, and I am better than I was.  Aunty  C would be thrilled to hear me say that as she is very pro my recognising what she sees as my triumphs.

I am less angry and aggressive.

I get out and about a bit more.

I earned some money.

I am learning to live with loneliness.

I am learning to forgive.  Properly.

But I can’t carry waiting for something to happen all the time as the days of my life whizz past.

In health, I give others good advice. Everyone says so.

In fact I’d go so far to say that I give really good advice. Everyone use to come to me for it.

But it’s that age old thing, innit.  Physician heel thyself and all that. But maybe it’s time I tried.

Time to book an appointment with…me.

Yes, I’ve finally lost it.

I hope that God has put meat on your bones and colour in your cheeks, young Stephen, and that you get to keep on partying hard in the afterlife, along with some well earned rest.

Do me a favour though, and give the Man Upstairs my best won’t you?

I just want to make sure He hasn’t forgotten to put my name on the guest list.

Lots of love

xxx