17 january 2010
Hate it hate it hate it – hate January. It’s always the same, the black dog gets me. That’s what Churchill used to call his depression. Mine is called HIV and at the moment its got me up against the wall. HIV is the rottweiler, the pit bull of depression and just like a pit bull, it attacks with the bite release, bite release principle. Sometimes it lets me escape but not for long. I’m always on the run – some days I can manage to put some distance between us, but right now it’s got me cornered and is snarling its ferocious teeth at me.
Like all predators, HIV is a big bully and waits for the opportune moment to pounce, such as now, when I’m suffering from the after Christmas blues, overspending and the miserable weather – and now the snow has melted there is no excuse to stay in anymore and shut myself away from the world.
“So sorry, can’t make colpooscuppy, colthuscapoppy colcuscposcopy appointment this morning,” I lie to nurse on the phone, “Can’t even say it, lips frozen, snowed in, can’t get out of thouse (that’s Lancashire for house) thousebound don’t you know.”
She didn’t, “Roads clear at hospital,” nurse informs me coldly, her lips obviously frozen too. Truth was I simply couldn’t face it, too depressed for camera exploration of my nether regions – nether regions impassable today.
Back to bed, but rottweiler or bullydog won’t let me. Churchill was known as the British Bulldog and he used to build brick walls in an attempt to combat his depression, maybe to keep the black dog out? But for me HIV is the wall – my prison wall and today is just another brick in that wall.
Is HIV a male or female bully think to self – hmmmm, was bullied by husband, but was also bullied at school by big fat girl who sat on me under lamppost. Can still see her yellow face sneering down at me. Looked a bit like Dawn French (sorry Dawn) my dad had to come and rescue me. Miss my dad – miss my mum, want her to bring me some Heinz tomato soup with ducks in. Luckily still have my sis but she gone back to Holland now – no walls in Holland only dykes. She called me on phone – put metaphorical finger in my dyke of depression, but still about to leak and overflow.
What to do? Some retail therapy perhaps in form of the January sales – go down town, first pop in to bank only to find was hideously overdrawn. Cannot be right – print out out again. Shouldn’t have signed up for new computer or ordered some more glasses.
But new glasses essential as was throwing bread to a plastic bag on the iced over canal the other day, quacking at it, swearing at stupid ruddy duck in an attempt to wake it up, thinking it had frozen to death. It might not have been a ruddy duck (wasn’t any kind of duck was plastic bag!) am not that well up on breeds of ducks, but there are some ruddy ducks up north apparently, who according to wikipedia came over from America to the west midlands but have since spread further north and are now endangering the Spanish white-headed duck by mating with their female senorita ducks.
There was the much reported case a few years back about the hundred ruddy ducks who had taken up residence in Wigan and who at the request of the Spanish Government were facing the death penalty.
Well, that was a bit extreme wasn’t it, they can’t blame the ruddy ducks for wanting to have a bit of a holiday romance – they don’t mind us British tourists having a holiday fling with their ruddy Spanish waiters, do they, in fact it’s almost obligatory.
However, the warmer weather in England, even up here in the frozen north, has resulted in the ruddy ducks as well as the ruddy package holiday tourists breeding closer to home, so another good thing about global warming you can tell that Jeremy Clarkson who’s always going on about it.
When a ruddy duck mates it raises two tufts of feathers on his head, cocks his tail, inflates the air sack in his neck and drums on it with his bill, making lots of bubbles and an impressive hollow noise – sounds like a good description of Jeremy Clarkson to me.
A ruddy duck in Italian is called a Gobbo Rugginoso Americano, change the nationality to British Gobbo and you’ve also got a fitting description of Mr Top Gear himself. On saying that I love Top Gear and once had an erotic dream about Jeremy much to the disgust of my cousin Viv of ‘Viv Lives’ fame.
Putting my mind to global issues and off Jeremy’s gear stick I thought I’d better tackle the mountain of rubbish and recycling as the ruddy bin men obviously weren’t going to. They haven’t been since before Christmas and we’ve been playing bin hokey kokey for weeks, putting it out and taking it back in – you put your rubbish bin out…. your rubbish bin in…. in out… in out and shake it all about (all over the street usually).
Went to the ginnel (Lancashire for back passage – no pun intended) where my bins are ‘thoused’ only to find my back patio, as opposed to my back passage, under four inches of muddy water after the torrential rain last night which caused all the snow to melt. The drain was blocked thanks to all the overflowing recycling bags and the water poised like a waiting tsunami. Nothing for it but to roll up sleeves and get the plunger out – but plunger very small and drain very big. Bail out with mop bucket, toss water over already waterlogged flower beds washing all spring bulbs away. Filled boot of car with dripping stinky rubbish bags and off to recycling centre to find the whole world and his black dog (maybe everyone depressed like me) with the same idea, hurling bags left right and centre.
New therapy, rubbish as opposed to caber tossing, it was great, singing to self – my old man’s a dustman… he wears a dustman’s hat… he wears gor blimey trousers and lives in council flat… he looks a proper nana in his great big hob nail boots… he has such a job to pull them up that he calls them daisy roots.
On subject of roots must go to thairdressers (Lancashire for hairdressers) as my daisy roots are desperately in need of attention. Would make me feel like new woman or new dustbin woman – never heard of dustbin woman have you? Alas, cannot afford thairdressers, will have to try to do it self with moustache bleaching cream and some tin foil. But no tin foil – foiled again, will grit teeth and go to Lidl to pay penance for overspending at Christmas. Buy recycled toilet rolls in name of economy and chicken so small looked like bloated sparrow. Least not a ruddy duck, although duck breasts were on offer. Got quite a lot for my money at Lidl have to say, I am impressed. Will become a Lidl-ite, “oh ying tang lidl-ite to.”
See it’s worked, feel more like old self – oh dear, shouldn’t have said old. Have to go back to bed now and start all over again.


‘The Secret Garden’ copyright Adrienne Seed


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