Tuesday, 31 December 2013

That was the year that was

I've seen loads of people posting their fabulous 2013 round up along with their amazingly ambitious resolutions for next year.

Usually I'd probably do the same thing. It is important to extrapolate the positives from whichever merry dance 2013 took you on. It is important to rationalise any badness and turn it into goodness, even if it's just words on the screen. Especially, perhaps, if it's words on a screen.

I battle frequently with the almost irresistible urge to whitewash my status updates, blogs and opinions because I don't want to be seen as whatever it is I'm worried that people see me as today. It seems endlessly important to be seen as positive or philosophical or just so lucky and happy.

It definitely isn't done to show the exhaustion of depression or the weariness of yet more bloody illness or the general malaise of a life unfulfilled.

With this in mind I would quantify 2013 as a year of ups and downs, of interesting and eye opening revelations concerning what were once close friendships and the start of some exceptional ones.  It's been a year I have uncharacteristically survived without getting fired and a year in which I have only had the one operation.

It's been a year where I moved house twice and have now apparently marooned myself on the island where the sun never shines and the rain never, ever stops.

I do, of course, have resolutions. Same as everyone else. I am going to write the book, get fit, have a think about stopping smoking and make myself meditate far more regularly. All of these normal, sensible choices to improve my health have sunk into my consciousness over many years and now, facing my 38th year and I can't just ignore it all any more.

Time to just woman up. Not tonight though. Tonight is for a bit of prosecco and a couple of cigarettes and a lot of not thinking at all.

For anyone who reads this, I wish you and all of us, a 2014 full of alright stuff, a couple of realistic achievements, maybe an excellent hair cut for example. Go forth, be nice and above all be well. Happy New Year.

Monday, 30 December 2013

I did not need to see that

Today I began my rest cure proper. For I have decided that my sojourn on this island is in the manner of the Victorian style 'taking the waters for nervous exhaustion' type thing.

There are no waters to take.

So instead I joined a health club. Me and gyms aren't friends in general but this club has something I enjoy. It has a pool. And, although it's mostly populated by yuppy Londoners who frequent the nearby yacht club, it is also pretty much guaranteed to be child free a lot of the time. Which I find the most essential selling point to anything I do these days. I know it's an unpopular opinion. And it doesn't mean I don't like kids. Well, not specific kids. Those related to me, for example. And those of my friends, of course. As  individuals they can be charming and funny and interesting. En masse I find them something I want to be away from. Far, far away from.

I went for my first swim this morning. As I walked into the changing rooms, my eyes immediately began to burn. Not, as you might suspect, from the chlorine, but from the sight that greeted me. The sight of an enormous, pendulous fleshy arse.

I don't know what it is about old women in communal changing rooms but I dunno that it's the wisest choice for everyone in the vicinity to park yourself immediately opposite the entrance to said changing rooms and then bend over while drying one's toes. She was winking at me. And it's really difficult to unsee that kind of thing.

I flinched and ran into the toilet to change. I don't do communal changing rooms. Ever.

The swim was perfect for about 20 minutes. Well, except for the immediate burning sensation in my under used muscles. This passed and I plodded up and down.

Two women joined me, at least 65 of they were a day and  immediately started ploughing up and down in a proper crawl.

The same women were in the changing rooms afterwards, again with the blatant nakedness. Chatting to each other about the yacht club, they looked at me rather like I'm another species and carried on gossiping.

One  enthusiastically sawed a towel briskly in between her legs while shagging off someone or other.

I tried not to see the things I saw today but they are burned on my retinas. I'm considering fashioning some blinkers from socks or something tomorrow. This is meant to do me good, not add to my nervous trauma.

It was good though. I followed it up with a walk in the stinging rain along a wild and stormy sea front. There is nothing like the sea when it's angry and grey and wild and ferocious.

After all of this unaccustomed exercise I felt amazing. For about an hour. Then I passed out. And am now struggling to walk. But it's a start. And that is good.

Friday, 27 December 2013

It's illegal to tell you that

I went to buy fags yesterday.

I know. It's a filthy, disgusting, horrible habit and I should be shot at dawn for continuing to smoke in the face of all evidence and knowledge and proof that it is damaging and degenerate. I KNOW. However. I went to buy fags yesterday.

For those non smokers among you, which seems to be everyone in the entire universe these days, things have changed. A lot.

I'm not just talking about the increasingly complex branding displayed by a schizophrenic and, frankly, insane, Marlboro. Or the comically high prices (almost £9 for 20 fags), or the health warnings plastered on the sides (diseased lungs, dead babies and that really weird autopsy one with the moustache and thing exploded out of his throat). It's the way they're selling them.

In the shop next to my old place in York, they had a sparse amount on the shelves. You had to point to the ones you wanted and then the lady behind the counter would do something or other and then they would pop out of this huge great vending machine in the corner. She said 'that's the law now'. It's not. Because nowhere else is doing it.

Yesterday in Tesco they have instigated the new rules about displaying the cigarettes. They are now locked away behind rolling screens.

Personally I think it's an utterly ridiculously pointless measure. Either make the damn thing illegal or wise up to your hypocritical selves and admit that the only thing that's keeping the NHS 'going' is the extortionate tax paid by smokers. Treated like second class citizens, herded out into the rain to smoke, sneered at by the healthy, mocked by the born again non smokers. It's not an easy life. the least that could be expected as an adult looking to buy a legal product is that I can see what's on the fucking shelves.

"Do you have Marlboro Touch?"

"No. Not anymore."

"What do you have? Can I have a look?"

"No, that's illegal."

"Er, well, how do I know what you've got?"

"Here's a list. Find the product you want and ask me and I'll tell you whether we have it."

Ooooh, this is fun, I thought. A parlour game. WHAT LARKS.

"It says you have Marlboro Touch on this list."

Scathingly: "Yes, but that's the list for the whole of Tesco, not for this store."

"So, can you tell me what you have?"

"No, it's against the law."


I didn't say that.. Except with my eyes.

"Marlboro Bright Leaf then?"

"No, we don't have those."


Thirty minutes later I have read out the list to him and eventually we come to an agreement that yes, he does have Marlboro Silver and yes, he can sell me those. Presumably as long as I smoke them without actually seeing them with my eyes.

Next step is having smokers walk a tightrope over pits of flames while reciting the Qu'ran backwards and juggling baby piglets. Only then will they be allowed to look at the list of lists and tediously go through every product until Kev from Ryde Tesco deigns to sell them some motherfucking cigarettes.

I need a fag.

Like I never existed...

You know that bit in the Bible when Jesus was cast out of somewhere? Actually, I'm not au fait with the details, but I know he was cast out of somewhere or other and had to go and commune with the bush in the desert or something like that.

Anyway, my point is, I know exactly how he feels.

Being excluded from something and unceremoniously cast out with nary a word is pretty tough to take. And so I found it today when I went to check my OKC profile.

It's just something I do at this point. Every time I open up my laptop, usually to do some kind of work, I check Facebook, Twitter, Reddit and OKC. It's just what happens. Then I have to flick between all four a few million times, make two cups of coffee, have a tidy up, maybe a walk and eventually I'll do some work. It's how all great writers write I hear.

If Oscar Wilde and the like had access to the internet there is no way on earth they would have been churning out their amazing works, you know. They'd have been too busy looking at pictures of cats and dogs in Christmas outfits.

Well today I couldn't log in. It actually wouldn't recognise my user name or email address. I have been expunged from OKC history. Like I was never there.

There is a reporting system and, yesterday, a man who kept on and on at me to reply (apparently I owed it to him because it was Christmas Day - I wasn't sure the birth of Jesus had any bearing on it but what do I know), so I did reply and told him I wasn't interested. Well, he didn't like my reply and threatened to report me. Go ahead sez I. Looks like he did.

They don't even send you an email saying: "We have deleted you because Carl in Birmingham was all hurt and upset because you didn't like his face." They don't even tell you you're deleted. You just can't log in.

It's like if you went to work and no one recognised you. And no trace of you existed. Like in a Liam Neeson film.

It's kind of thrown a spanner in my snark works but I just don't know if I can be fagged to write another one.

Kind of weird how it's OK for guys to send you pictures of their penis but if you tell an insistent one to bog off then you're persona non grata.

It's the end of a beautiful era.

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

I am not there; I do not sleep

There's a poem that goes like this:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints in snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not here; I did not die.

When I went to the cemetery to see my dad this morning, these were the words chanting through my mind. This is, at least partly, because so many people choose to put the first stanza on the gravestone of choice. It's clearly a popular death poem. We don't have that many to choose from really. Pretty much that Auden one, a Rosetti, maybe a couple of war poems. And this.

But also, I think, because it is very soothing, if you let it be.

I have a cynical commentary running through my head in response to it. Yes, I do actually hear voices. I don't. I mean, I kind of do, but only in the same way that you do I'm sure. Probably. Anyway.

The poem will start: Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep.

And I know what it means. And it is soothing to think that everywhere I look I can be reminded of my dear dad. And that I can look up at the stars and imagine that somehow he has turned to dust that has become part of the universe again. I do do that. Sometimes.

But today, in that cemetery on Christmas morning I found that I was sitting at his grave and I was weeping. Because he is there. In that grave. Well, his ashes are. Because we put him in a box and we burned him and the only way I can spend time with my dad now is to go and sit in a soaking wet graveyard on Christmas morning and sob over his small, plain gravestone.

So that's what I did. I didn't mean to sob. It's been 12 Christmases. I'm used to it. It's fine. I know I won't see him and that Christmas just doesn't really feel like anything any more, and that's fine. I'm alright with that. I never get to go and see him because I have never lived near enough to his grave to do so.

I didn't know that it would punch me in the soul like that.

His grave is under a tree in a beautiful, beautiful graveyard. He's hidden away from the ostentatious graves that make up most of it.

As I look up from his grave I see a teddy bear in a Christmas hat on one of the more heartbreaking efforts that litter the cemetery. Children's graves with desperately sad messages, toys, tiny Christmas trees and endless ornaments. I straighten the flowers on a few graves near my dad's. The crazy ass weather has knocked a lot of the flowers over and no dead person deserves that on Christmas morning.

There is only me, my ma and one other woman in the graveyard. Maybe we missed the Christmas Day rush. She straightens flowers on a relatively new looking grave and then spends 20 minutes staring forlornly at it. Because that's basically what you do. It's an odd kind of comfort you can get from a soaking wet slab of marble in a field.

Because the last line of the poem, you see. That's just gobshitey bollocks. You are there in that box because you did die.

I didn't mean to weep on your grave dad. It was terribly cliched. I just really, really miss you. So much. Merry Christmas.

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

Water, water everywhere...

Fucking hell. Fucking fucking fucksticking bollocking hell.

When I landed on the Isle of Wight, which is apparently the island version of Royston Vasey these days, it was a bit shitty weather wise. The ferry was very slightly choppy, which I naturally freaked out at. By this time into the 8 hour journey my nerves were shot as I was convinced my fat cat was dying of stress in the back of the van.

Turns out it was me.

As soon as I let him out of his cat box he ambled around, yawned, stretched and stuffed his fat cheeks like nothing had ever happened.

It started raining when I arrived here. And it hasn't stopped yet. Four days on and it's been an unrelenting stream of icy water, sweeping from the sea and battering the back of our exposed house.

Last night, just as I was about to settle down with some right shit telly and maybe even a small Baileys, some kind of mega ultra storm from hell descended. The gods are apparently pissed the fuck off. Horizontal rain drove water through the tops and bottoms of the windows of our jerry-built conservatory until it was uncontrollably streaming through all the gaps and destroying everything in sight.

At times like this one discovers their inner metal.

I don't have any.

I have inner cotton wool.

I just wanted to lie down and let it all just happen.

But instead I got some of that weird plastic sealant stuff and bodged it on to the windows with my bare hands. Stood bare foot in streaming water trying to seal gaps like some fool sticking their finger into the Hoover Dam. That was me. Then I realised that maybe the fact that water streaming through the electrics wasn't the best thing that ever happened, so we turned those off.

Upstairs the window that was slightly broken before the storm hit became extremely broken indeed. Water streaming through upstairs and downstairs, wind that you can't hear each other yell over, no defences and not much clue what to do.


We watched Jane Eyre through the eye of the storm and it cheered me up quite a lot. Fassbender as Rochester is one of the best casting decisions since Harrison Ford and everything he's ever done. But there's only so much distraction one can derive from a film when the wind is howling and everything is crashing and rattling and vehicles are stuck on the hill outside and for a moment it feels like this is actually it. The end of the world as we know it. The apocalypse. The very damp apocalypse.

Eventually we slept to wake up to detritus aplenty and more water than you ever want to see in places it shouldn't be.

I may have got up this morning and had a small weep. Which is exactly what one doesn't need when one needs to be all dynamic and problem solving. But a few hours later and the calm after this storm and before the next on Friday means that joy to the world is restored.

I can see sunshine streaming through the rain covered window panes and I can hear that the wind is a small howl instead of a screaming roar.

So, I may be living in a weird world where nothing works (no mobile, dodgy telly and patchy WiFi) and a world where apparently gale force 10 winds are the norm, but I'm finally feeling the stir of a tiny festive feeling deep inside.

It could be time to get the tree up. Maybe.

Thursday, 19 December 2013

These stairs should be condemned

I was up at 6 packing and taping and packing and taping and sobbing and packing.

But I was ready with 20 minutes to spare.

The storage men were late.

As I looked out of the window I suddenly noticed two old lads waving up at me. I thought they must be lost. They were easily in their sixties so obviously couldn't be the professional moving and storage firm I'd booked at great expense. Right?

Yeah. You've seen where this is going haven't you? Yet another craptastic episode in the cut price ITV sit com of my life.

They were wheezing and coughing and breathing hard just walking up the first of my three flights of stairs.

I was agahst. I had at least a thousand books in boxes. That they would have to move. I don't know CPR.

Even more so when they coughed and spluttered their way up to the attic and said:

"Your stairs shouldn't be used."

Urm. Sorry?

"They're dangerous"

Well, they're not. I use them loads. I go up them and down them frequently. I just do.

They seemed to get over that but then said that there is "too much stuff".

Well, there isn't. There is the stuff that I was quoted on. By your boss. When he came here and looked at it with his  expert eye.

"Well, you shouldn't listen to him. He just says anything. He does it all the time."

Canned laughter.

Three tortuous hours later they're gone. Luckily no heart attacks were had. There was the time one of them went outside and had a screaming row with his wife on the phone, loud enough for everyone on Fishergate to hear. That was fun.

Then they charged me double because that crazy boss of theirs apparently just makes shit up as he goes along.

And these are the people I'm leaving all my lovely stuff with for the next year or so.

So that's a thing.

Only the whole house to clean now. Which is why I'm writing this while crouched on my makeshift bed (two cushions and a duvet) because I would rather walk through broken glass and then systematically jump up and down on the shards than clean one more fucking thing or pack one more cunting box.

Monday, 16 December 2013

Loose all faith and hope in obama.

I've had a hell of a day punctuated by vomming, valium and weeping. So I don't really have any energy to analyse this beauty. No need, really. 

Sunday, 15 December 2013

The corporate psychopath

Did anyone watch Psychopath Night last night on Channel 4? I was all over it like a tramp on chips. I love that shit. Exactly my idea of perfect Saturday night viewing.

I read Jon Ronson's book, The Psychopath Test a while back, which basically said everyone is one and no one is one. Kind of. So that wasn't helpful. I wanted to find out whether certain people in my life (were in my life, I should say) are, as I strongly suspect, absolute howling psychos or whether it's my hatred of their shitty actions that makes me think that.

Of course, I was only filtering this through my broken brain so it was always going to be rather biased.

It was a tad disappointing to have the programme laid out as a Top 10 'best psycho films' complete with talking heads. Admittedly, the talking heads were, we're told, 'experts' in psychos. And some woman from the FBI or something gave her verdict on the portrayals of psychopaths in films ranging from Psycho to We Need To Talk About Kevin.

The film analysis was poor. I mean, poor as fuck. They seemed to have not seen We Need To Talk About Kevin and missed the entirely relevant subtext that the mother herself is the sociopath/psychopath but you know, whatever.

But I still liked seeing some of my favourite psychos on screen for a bit.

There was much talk of nature/nurture and what quantifies someone as an actual psychopath. And, of course, the difference between psychopaths who kill, torture and maim and those that just like to be cunts because they can.

There were tales of charismatic psychos fooling lots of doctors and shrinks and lots of sheepish looks from those who were hoodwinked. Of course, they shouldn't be sheepish at all. That's kind of the point of a proper bona fide psychopath. The traits used to define a psycho include empathy (lack of), a grandiose idea of themselves, the ability and drive to step all over people to get what they want and basically being cruel fuckheads with nary a thought for anyone else.

There are others and, the experts seemed to say, it's having these mixed with just the right amount of childhood trauma and a soupcon of bad genetic weirdness that makes for your Dahmer style psycho. But, as for the other kind, the ones that don't kill, they are all around us.

The top profession in terms of number of actual psychos in it is, naturally, banking. What a shock. Then lawyers. Amazing. And third came the one that interested me the most - media.


And then they went on to talk about the prevalence of corporate psychopaths. I think we've all met these in our time, no? The inexplicably successful asshole vaguely masquerading as a normal person? The one who reels you into a position within their company with promises and smiles and seemingly bucket loads of charm, only to drop the pretense pretty much the second you're through your probationary period, to replace it with head games, cruelty and bullying. Just, it seems, because they can.

They delight in the kind of in house bullying that frequently occurs within small companies and, in bigger ones, within teams. They actually cultivate these kinds of destructive behaviour, knowingly and willingly. Their rule is 'divide and conquer' and they care not one whit about you and your life. It doesn't matter if you are ill, having mental health issues, have children who are ill, it just. Doesn't. Matter.

All that matters is the money they can make and also the power they have over you. I used to think it was solely money driven but I no longer think this. After certain experiences, I conclude that these corporate psychopaths enjoy what they do to people. As much as they enjoy anything.

It's tempting to analyse these shitbots and assume that they must have had some kind of traumatic event that turned them into inhuman fucktards. But, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, I don't give a shit. They're assholes. Deep and dark and nasty to the core. And the best thing, should you be unfortunate enough to come into direct contact with one of them is to cut the shit and get out of there.

No good will come of attempting to work with these kinds of people. If you, yourself are not a sociopath or a psychopath, suffice to say that you do not need that kind of poisonous wankfestery in your life. No matter the salary. No matter the job. No matter the career.

These people are destructive and damaging and petty fucking losers. Get out, stay out and breathe freely. There's a whole world of none psychos out there.

After watching these psycho fest I did the psychopath test, which you can find here. I am, apparently a mere 27% psycho. I was kind of sad about this for some reason. I just like to win things.

Friday, 13 December 2013

Just put stuff in FUCKING BOXES

How hard is it just to pick stuff up and put it in boxes? Why can I not just DO IT. Why am I paralysed by some kind of fear? Why do I seem to think that not doing what I need to do will help this crushing sense of panic? Why? Why? WHY?

I need drugs.

Thursday, 12 December 2013

Memory box

As I slowly drag my way through the painfully tedious palaver of packing up my shit I'm discovering things.

A box of art equipment that would have come in really handy, if only I'd remembered I had it, for example. The remote control and power lead for the TV I sold last week to a mate who was most disappointed to realise it was fecking useless without the bits. I'm glad I've found those, it has to be said. It was all getting a bit embarrassing.

And mostly, I've found photographs. Books of memories, some of them mine, most of them not. We were never a big photo family. It must be impossible for young 'uns today to grasp that people used to just go and do things, including holidays and Christmas and the like, without taking photographs of it every two seconds. We didn't even have a photo face.

I'm pretty freaked out by the selfie squint thing I see all over my Facebook from the cool kidz. It's weird. When did looking constipated become the thing? I don't understand. I'm so old.

Anyway, back in my day, we'd take some photos with a shitty disposable camera thing and then generally forget to have them developed. This, along with some rather disturbing massive blanks in my memory of childhood means that there are many gaps. I wonder what it would have been like had we been able to catalogue every single thing. There are definitely many moments and haircuts and phases I'm more than happy to pretend never happened, to be fair. No one needs their growing up moments broadcast to the entire world.

But my own memories are usually painful. I see pictures of my dad and my family and I wish so much that I could go back. Just for five minutes. So what I prefer to do is look at memories before I existed. Pictures of my parents are few and far between. Combined with the fact that they both lack any kind of vanity, they were also just not very photography through the years. So, that means the ones I have are treasured.

Like this one:

My mum rocking the late 60s by having some crazy Spanish lady pour Sangria down her neck, to the obvious delight of my father and shock and awe from the lady next to her. 

Also this one:

I love this one. Before illness and stress and kids and all the things that came afterwards. Just my mum and dad. Happy. Dad seems to be taking it more in his stride with the Sangria, it has to be said.

A moment frozen.

And then I found this of my beautiful mother.

I'm so glad I have these. And forever annoyed that my ma's hair was way better than mine.

Monday, 9 December 2013

York sandwich

I now have 10 working days left in York. But fuck 'working days' because I don't have a proper job. So, really, I have 13 days left in York.

And in a way I'm leaving this city much as I arrived - a big ball of spiky anxiousness. As soon as I moved from my comfort zone of Leamington Spa, I haven't managed to chill the fuck out, if I'm honest. In fact, it could be said - and, indeed, has been, by the odd doctor and shrink - that my panic disorder has become A Thing.

Here is a list of things I can't do without the very high possibility of having a panic attack: go to shopping malls, go into wide open spaces, eat out at restaurants, go to parties, go to pubs, go to fucking Waitrose, go for a walk, fly, go to a station. In short, as long as I stay within my house and approximately five other tightly controlled locations, there is the humungous chance that I will have a panic attack.

I have been here before. Agoraphobia has been an on and off thing since I was about 16. So it's not new to me. It's been up and down since then, with some years very very little and other times a heinous amount. After the stresses and strains of the last year or so, the severity of it is freaking me out somewhat. And the pressure. Oh god, the pressure. I want to take my brain out and wash it. In bleach. Start over.

The number of things I haven't been able to do, attend, see and experience since I've lived in York are, of course, major reasons why I'm moving to somewhere I can properly relax. Get better. Sort it out. Get my head together. Do some meditation. Chill the fuck out, man. Stop taking everything so very, very seriously. Regularly get drunk again. Do some life affirming stuff.

But before then comes a month of high stress and full on terror in some cases. And before that comes packing. Even that's making me anxious. I selected the nine pairs of shoes I'm going to take with me yesterday. NINE. That's fewer than I had when I was nine. Nine pairs of shoes, about 100 books and a few clothes. Fatty is going to have more stuff going down with him than I am.

I'm going to be living like an actual nun. Without the praying. Obviously. I could be down for some Huxley style Devils action though.

Time to wrap this sandwich in cling film and stick it in the freezer for a while. I'll be back for it later.

Monday, 2 December 2013

Two approaches, one result

Compare and contrast.

First guy:

So many things wrong with this. So many.

Second guy:

So many things wrong with this. So many.

And the rest of it...

I'm smashing up furniture, dismantling things I've had for years and getting rid of around 50% of my stuff. It's all very pleasing and cathartic. There is a slight concern that I will go too far and when I need to move into the next place I'll suddenly realise I have bugger all in the way of furnishings and fittings.

I'm liking the idea of shedding a lot of detritus for 2014.

Including the rest of my self help book library.

The very fact I bought some of these - and every single one has been read and, at one time, read over and over again - makes me want to give my past self a proper big cuddle. 

Trying to push my personality into the right mould for my partner took its massive toll and I seem to have apparently blamed myself for most things. And, in the way of women everywhere, tried to work out a way to make it all better. 

If only I was less jealous, less insecure, more laid back, more amusing, more confident, more, more, MORE then maybe this relationship will work and everything will be marvellous. So much upset and stress and worry and self hatred. And all because I couldn't just look at a situation and realise it for what it was. 

Sigh. Come here, past Deb. Have a little cuddle and a big old slap round the face for wasting so much precious time. 

Here we have: 

  • Why Men Love Bitches - really Deb? Really?
  • The Highly Sensitive Person in Love - oh dear. 
  • Jealousy: Why It Happens and How to Overcome It - we covered this in the last post. 
  • Overcoming Mood Swings - having read this and absorbed it, I would suggest this doesn't work. 
  • Obsessive Love - sigh. 
  • If This is Love, Why Do I Feel So Insecure? - I can't even.
  • Overcoming Low Self Esteem - I haven't. 
  • The Glass Half Full - it isn't 
  • Don't Call That Man - good advice
  • Fuck It - the tenets of Buddhism with added fuck words. 
  • It's Called A Break Up Because It's Broken - this one is actually good. Particularly for those moments when you start thinking about all the 'good' times. And then eventually realise that the 'good' times were the times when you were watching BSG with each other because you had nothing in common. 
  • How To Mend Your Broken Heart - Paul McKenna didn't make me thin, he didn't make me confident, he didn't stop me smoking but he may have been a bit helpful here. All meditation and visualisation based, it was good at the time I really needed it. As in, the time when I stopped eating food and lived on red wine for six weeks. 

These books reflect the years 2005 and 2008/9 respectively.

I am so happy that I am here now.