WEEKS LIKE THESE
When I fell into Monday I think it was with a bump! I say I think; because Monday seems a long, long, time ago.
As usual I would have woken at five. Every day when I finally decide to find out the time and look at my phone it tends to be just about 5.08 with the shipping news due in another ten minutes and me, slightly resentfully, listening to it.
It would have been seven that I got up, with the promise to get Wendy coffee before I set off. I got the early train because the trains nowadays have a habit of being cancelled and I did not want to miss my appointment.
My train was late but not too late. For once I had set off with just my phones, my wallet and a book for company. I was all ants in pants on the train, thinking over and over what the radio presenter would ask, how I would answer, what answers might get me in trouble with work, whether the protestors would know I was going to the BBC and would even follow me there.
At exhibition centre, walking along the long walkway to the weird conglomeration of buildings that make this part of the Clyde so spectacular, I realised I should have left my jacket at home. I also realised I was far, far, too early.
I sat on a concrete something overlooking the Clyde watching the occasional boat pass, a lorry edge up towards a building to deliver some sort of crane to it.
I carried on worrying. Thought the security guard had already looked at me strangely. I took more photos of the BBC building and the SSEC for social media and wondered why I do such things as I only ever get a few likes for anything I post.
I got issued my badge, then got security things waved along my arms and legs and was escorted to the studio by a very chatty person who plonked me at a seat outside, for some reason feeling he had to apologise for it, while instead, I glowed at having the wonderful view through the windows.
Stephen Jardine turned out to be lovely, I wonder what age he is? Maybe younger than me but he was a definite grown up; in control, charming, friendly, I would guess he is handsome. I am not a grown up! But when it came time to talk I did witter away: natter, natter. I went on for fifteen minutes more or less keeping to the point and then it was over and I was by the Clyde again.
Wendy had lost the internet or something so had no idea how I had come across but a trickle of messages came through congratulating me for doing so well. I made myself slow down on my walk back to the station but still, I got hot and sweaty.
Finally at some point we both found the broadcast and I must admit, I did preen a bit …. Best not say much more.
In the afternoon I found myself on my bed listening to a webinar about mental health tribunals, but the excitement of the morning got to me and I missed the last few minutes by falling asleep; waking with a guilty start as I had really wanted to listen closely.
I had made the children and Wendy a chicken stew for their tea and myself a veggie chilli. They seemed to like it, though Charlotte told me off when I said I was going out for the evening to the book thing.
I arrived at the Open Mike with a bag of my books, wondering if anyone would buy any. Having arrived, I found out that I was too late to sign up to do anything in that session. I have mixed feelings about events like this. There are certainly some very good writers and I really enjoy listening to them. I think I lack a certain cultural awareness when I hear people delivering their readings in a very different accent to the one they use for their everyday speech. That confuses me. I think we should write close to our everyday language but when it is done to emphasise something we might not be then I feel slightly lost but then I am always somewhat lost! I also get lost too when obviously powerful and wealthy people are at pains to show how subversive and left wing they are, how oppressed they are. But maybe I do that too, though I am not wealthy and not conventionally powerful, but I have a voice that is listened to and come to that, the accent helps too!
I found the podcast from Metro Magazine on twitter which delighted me, especially as some people had retweeted it, saying it was wonderful. Do I really live in a world of retweets? I still haven’t listened to it as I don’t want the children to overhear me talking of the suicide attempts and thoughts that are part of my life.
I remember all the family were up when I got home and that I went to bed before anyone else. Then again, I got up again before anyone else on the tuesday too! To go to Barrhead. Yet again I was very, very, early, wandering along strange streets and peering at closed childcare centres.
I sat in the council offices, which had just opened; watched the receptionist deal with the people coming in to pay bills or get some sort of help. One young man followed his mum back out but she screamed in rage at him to get back in there which he did shamefacedly. He struggled to speak coherently, I think he was on something. He tried to make friends with the receptionist who kept on telling him to be patient and sit down; at one stage giving him a cup of water from her thermos flask. A young Chinese looking mum came in looking distressed and confused with bits of paper clasped in her hands. She got sent through what seemed the most important doors and the young man asked why she had gone through before him before being asked to sit back down again.
Not long after I was speaking to about twenty health visitors and nurses and midwives about being a father and having a mental illness. It is a good talk and it is a powerful talk but my son is now over thirty so it is a very out of date talk. It has power over me too – I found the faintest film of tears in my eyes when talking in the discussion.
Leaving there I set off for Oban; must have been a hundred mile drive. Not such a bad one, very pretty but lots of motorhomes driving slowly.
I just had time for coffee before walking up the hill to Rape Crisis. It is a lovely feeling when your therapist looks delighted to see you. We talked about the court case. This time the session was different. My very first session, I more or less arrived to burst into tears; my second I arrived to tell some of my story, felt nothing and went to bed for an anxious sleep and a sick in the stomach morning feeling and this one? We had a conversation. I liked it. I didn’t get too upset. I skated towards the idea that some of my life and experiences were not good and shouldn’t have happened and then skated away from that realisation.
I spent the evening in Hope Kitchen talking to people about mental health things, eating tea with them, finally making a donation to the food kitty and giving them one of my books and then it was time to go home in the pouring rain. There were huge puddles on the roads making the car skite a little and throw up waves of water.
Finally I was home and as it was a Tuesday, able to sleep in the comfy bed upstairs.
Wednesday; Wendy worked downstairs. I worked upstairs, mainly on the bed and went to a team meeting. At some point on that rainy day I took Dash the dog for a walk and for many hours I read about economic social and cultural rights in the context of mental disorder, making comments I very much hoped were helpful, along the way. Just as I was about to stop, I got a work email. It sparked annoyance in me. Did I pause to calm down, reflect, think how I would appear? Yes I did and then I ignored it anyway. I tried to be polite and I tried to be sort of funny in showing up what I thought were some absurdities but didn’t look to see if I was replying to the sender or the whole workplace. So now everyone knows my views. I got a lot of private messages of support back and through the next day got more and more indignant in the way indignant people do but finally had the sense to remain quiet and not spread my disquiet any further.
Thursday was more lap top stuff for work and then even more hours looking at human rights enablement and autonomous decision making as well as a chapter about principles and purpose. You know when you cannot really think straight because you have been focussing so hard? My comments on chapter one worried me; I thought they were friendly but maybe they weren’t so I emailed to apologise. I am made of apologies and sometimes think my life would be better if I was silent all the time.
Wendy had gone to work in the office that day and was shattered on her return. I came downstairs and could hardly speak. The twins came home and decided to be as wild as dervishes not that I quite know what a dervish is but either way they were wild. It was an evening to forget about cooking and order a takeaway. It was funny looking at Wendy trying to read the menu. She stared and stared but you could tell the words made no sense to her because of her exhaustion. James for once, decided to choose for himself and I sort of but not quite ordered the wrong thing but it was as close to the thing I think he really wanted instead of what he ordered which I don’t think he really wanted. I do hope that makes sense!!
My consignment of Blackbird Singing arrived as did the bill, Dash came home from Doggy day care with his bill and by the end of the night my bank balance was very much lighter. I still have to pay the electricity and gas for the house in Nairn and as the smart meter doesn’t work they continue to charge me as if someone lives in it instead of adjusting to the fact that the lights only get turned on when someone comes to view it.
We all found out the Queen was dying but got very confused by the broadcasters who talked as if she already had only to find out that she had and they knew but couldn’t tell us until it was official. Now there will be lots of mourning and lots of posturing by people who like to be noticed. I liked the Queen on the few occasions I met her; she was quiet and kind and I think summed up by someone as gracious, which seems to fit it all exactly. I feel sorry for Prince Charles who obviously loved his mum; having to start all his kingly things straight away. Could he not have had a few days at least before having to face us all via the cameras again?
I had bought whipping twine, sail needles and a bosuns glove thing to mend the sofa bed mattress when I was in Oban but Thursday night, decided duck tape would do the job better.
Friday; out the house before anyone was up, off to Edinburgh, too tired to look anymore at the report we were discussing that day. I think the day went well, I hope I made sense. Despite the travel it was lovely to see people even if I do think they are kind to me because you are meant to be kind to people but maybe don’t want to be kind to people like me but sort of have to be! I did some laughing at some points; my head did not seize up till I got on the train and then it properly seized up. As usual I did not read and I did not work on the train. I pretty much stared unseeingly at my phone.
At the station the car had a flat tire. At home I was too tired to do much other than make us omelette for tea, drink some whisky, give Wendy a kiss and fall into my bed.
Saturday I woke early again, heard much more of the laments and stories about the Queen, fell asleep, woke, fell asleep, finally woke. Coffee, French toast, nattering, persuading Wendy she needed to come on the Dash the dog walk. Talking about being or starting that journey to healthiness that I have put off so long. Hearing, not wanting to hear, but really needing to hear Wendys anger that I pay so little attention to my health that she worries for the twins in the years to come if I don’t at least do something.
And then, short moments after Gary had mended the flat tire, it was listening to Wendy tidying the rabbit room, belatedly realising I had forgotten to put the washing out, going to bed in the afternoon to do just stuff: internet, photos, writing, all that sort of thing and in the end just falling into a sleep that turned into a long doze.
Wendy did much the same. I made her tea, phoned my mum and we watched a wonderful funny film called ‘Our Ladies’. Funny too, to recognise all the landmarks. Now I am in bed having taken the bins out a day early so having had to take them back in again. The lovely side to that is that tomorrow is Sunday and I can do more of not very much.
I saw the bats when walking Dash, flying inches from me, I love that so much. Reality tourists have shared their recording of me. I think tomorrow when no one is around I will listen to both those broadcasts.
For now I seek sleep yet again with a yearning. I think Wendy is downstairs watching Telly. I will see her in the morning. Now to turn the radio on.
And now it is Sunday, I slept very late; woke to stretch and wriggle in bed and to remember my dream in which I found a short story for a slightly violent matriarchal society. It sounded original in my sleep and weird in my waking. Wendy woke to wonder if she had covid and is now in bed. Dash and I went wandering at Ardmore. We looked at the pear tree, and the daisies, the blackberries and stared out at the ballast pile with its crowd of oyster catchers and a very noisy heron. Occasionally the train would rush past, occasionally I would pass people chattering. I made soup and I made toasties and I searched out photos to send to people for my photography group.
It is three in the afternoon. I will post this as my weekly blog. People sometimes want things like this to have a message, almost a moral. There is no message. I had a busy week. So busy I could hardly do anything when I tumbled into this weekend. There are so many other things that have happened. I cannot remember the chatter of the children, or the pictures or stories Charlotte wrote and painted. I cannot remember very much of much else at all. I think that is maybe my moral. I have worked and studied and worked and worked. I have worked so hard that I did not message my son when that is more important and thing than anything else. I have worked so hard I cannot remember coffee in the morning, or my dreams or my fears.
And now if I look in the mirror I know I need a shower and know these two days of rest have done me a world of good. I will go back to the radio and I will pick up that wonderful book by Robert Lloyd Jones about canoeing on the West Coast and wonder why I didn’t do such things when I would have so loved to do them when I was fit and younger and then I will think that despite being ill Wendy will say something funny this evening and that will feel wonderful and will be quite happy when I go upstairs again later to listen to Cait O’Neill McCullagh read more of her wonderful poems.
Then tomorrow it will start again but in a different way.
(Photos, down by exhibition centre on the Clyde, Oban, Ardmore, and books. September 2022)
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