Saturday, January 31


Another wasted day. I spent it sleeping, drowsing and occasionally reading. I am insanely jealous of people who manage to cram their days full of activity, ceaselessly accomplishing from morning until night, before hitting the pillow at a reasonable hour and sleeping peacefully, only to start all over again the next day. Do these people really exist? Surely they do. That's how gyms and rubbish dumps and garden centres stay in business. Is this the model of a normal, functioning adult? If so, I am doomed.

Today I was roused by the sound of the doorbell ringing (three times!) and was forced to stumble downstairs in my mis-matched pyjamas to find out what the hell all the din was about. PJ Harvey tickets, as it turns out. But Jesus, the man made a meal out of handing them over. First there was name confirmation, then there was signage, then he fumbled around with the little silver sticker before rifling through a pile of other junk to look for more letters. In the meantime I was exposed to freezing cold wind blowing an icy gale through my hallway and right down my (bordering on indecent, I later realised) cleavage. I stomped back upstairs, treading on the cat, and back into bed only to be roused again by my sister inviting me to breakfast. Breakfast? People who go out for breakfast are weird. It is much better to have Shreddies or porridge in the comfort of your own home. Then you can hate the world contentedly and nobody is any the wiser. However, there are occasions when it is necessary to show your face to others at breakfast time and then you should simply claim to have had a bad night in defense of your odd behaviour. This is not how I imagine normal, functioning adults to behave. I imagine them to leap out of bed, salute the sun, do thirty-or-so sit-ups whilst drinking a cup of freshly brewed fairtrade coffee, then bounce out of the door to attend a basket weaving class (or similar).

In the 11 hours that I have been awake today I have: read three chapters of Brideshead Revisited, drunk 3 mugs of tea and half-heartedly pushed the hoover around the front room. There is nothing else. I lie. I also ate 3 M&S cookie dunkers and fed the cat. I don't like Homebase, I don't want to learn Indian Head Massage and I can't afford to have my hair done. Is this all there is?

Friday, January 30


Today is payday. Payday frightens me. It is the day when the most money ever goes into my account, only to shoot straight back out again within minutes.

When I was hypomanic I used to fritter my money away on all manner of useless things; I once bought two umbrellas in one go. At university, I spent about 1/2 of my loan on £50 face creams and jeans that I only wore once. When I left and got a job I thought it just meant that I had more to spend. My bank account and credit limit(s) were never-ending fountains of cash, gushing forth pounds to feed my insatiable hunger for ITEMS. I had at least 4 wardrobe's worth of clothes. I also had 40 handbags. And about 30 pairs of shoes. Products were my smack and I gobbled them like Ms Pacman, blissfully unaware of the creepy debt ghosts waiting to ambush me as I rounded a corner.

One day I tried to take money out to pay for a prescription and the magic money machine ate my card. I staggered home and worked out that I was at least £18,000 in debt. Mentally stable, but deeply, heavily and scarily in debt.

So now payday for me is bitter-sweet. After paying my rent and my monthly transfer into my debt management plan I am left with very little to play with. If I feel anything remotely approaching crazy I have to lock myself indoors, or dole myself a tenner and go to Primark. And my face creams only cost £3 nowadays.

Thursday, January 22

I'll throw you in the Timelash!

Boredom makes one do funny things, like have photos taken of oneself with the worst Doctor Who story ever.

And then forget how to turn the image round using one's Mac.

Monday, January 19

Who are...

... the 7 people that viewed my blog today? Come on - own up!


I'm still reeling from innocently browsing the Guardian TV listings and seeing this:

You know reality tv has gone well and truly out of control when Kerry Katona's placenta gets its own fucking fly-on-the-wall show.

Thursday, January 15

Comedy Drug Hell

Think of a comedy name for a mental illness drug. Go on. Spazpills, perhaps? Loopytabs? Tardcaps?

One of the above three is the actual new name for my regular antidepressant drug. Now I am going to go and shoot myself. Goodnight.

Do Google searches and that...