Sunshine and sea air gives you wings... (8 May 2012)

A friend and I took our dogs to Dorset last week for a walk along the cliff path near Charmouth and were incredibly lucky with the weather. Despite the forecast of rain and wind, we instead found ourselves baking under a hot sun, a truly glorious contrast to the endless rain of the previous few weeks. The dogs were equally happy, though less so later on when we refused to share our ice creams, having taken a more sensible route down to the beach!

The minutes tick by as each pair is removed, rolled up and placed back in the drawer. By the time I settle on a pair – the first ones I’d put on – I’ve slipped from pushing at the boundaries of tardiness to being so far behind the line I have to squint to see it.

Not quite knowing what I’ll do when I get there, I set off anyway. I arrive after the others have gone. Feel like a fool. Sit on the bench, alone, wondering what on earth to do. I know where they’re going, so I get back on the bike and make my own way to the coffee shop, pushing the pace in the expectation of catching them up.

Halfway there, it becomes obvious they’ve taken a different route. In many ways, that helps me relax. The pressure removed, I take a deep breath and savour the clean air, the sights and sounds of the country lanes, marvel at the stubborn floodwaters that refuse to recede. The rhythm of the pedals gently rocks my turbulent emotions, soothes them, talks them down.

Great Wood, Somerset (2 January 2012)

My arrival brings me up sharply. The tension and anxiety return. I order coffee for one, my stomach writhing in too many knots to cope with cake. Decide to sit outside in the wind to hide from the bustle and noise of the staff and customers.

Need to reach out to someone so text a friend. As my woeful message speeds off into the ether, the others arrive. My relief outweighs the anxiety and I let them mock. Their assumption that I’d overslept is as good an excuse as any and means I get away with a second coffee. And cake, this time around.

Drinks and calories consumed, we brush off the crumbs and mount our bikes. The route home is unfamiliar to me, at least for a while. Hate that, much harder to be “lost” close to home. Also find myself feeling responsible for a new member of the club, struggling with the distance and the hills. Caught in conversation, I manage to say the right things, make encouraging noises, promise that it gets easier with time and practice. Deliberately ignore the hidden meaning.

And so to home, savouring the peace and quiet of the last few miles on my own, greeted by an enthusiastic dog who thinks that her need for cuddles and fuss are more important than my bladder’s need for an urgent trip to the bathroom. Change, kettle on, ponder options for lunch. Check mobile. A text bears tidings of unexpected news that shatters my fragile and bruised state of mind. Go numb. No longer hungry but chuck something in the oven anyway. Eat without tasting it whilst watching a DVD. Keep pressing pause to make another cup of tea, each one loaded with more sugar than the last. The DVD ends, can’t escape any longer. Take the dog out: only a short walk, can’t cope with anything longer. More tea. Try reading. Can’t concentrate. Run a bath. Soak for an hour. Reading’s easier whilst mostly submerged in hot water. It eventually cools: I’m forced out.

Can’t put it off any longer. Lay out a dressing and bandage, get a razor blade: three neat parallel lines on my right arm. I watch the blood swell and start to run down the skin. Catch it with the dressing, hold it tight against the cuts, feel the pain, savour the pain. I’m alive: here’s the proof, written in blood. I can feel. Not numb any more. Secure the dressing to my arm. Tidy up. Pick up the razor and before I know it, I’ve slashed my left arm. I roar in shock, then freeze at the sight of the wound. Nothing neat about this. Deep, very deep. And wide. I hastily slap a dressing on it, my heart racing. Lift it up, just to see. Looks better now that it’s smeared with blood, not as frightening now that I can’t see the full extent of the cut.

Stand there for ages, wondering what to do. It’s the Saturday of a Bank Holiday weekend, so the doctor’s surgery is closed until Tuesday. I could leave it, I’ve got the dressings and bandages and tape. It’ll heal. But what if it gets infected? I suspect that my arguments that I can look after myself, can take responsibility for my actions will be severely weakened if I don’t get it seen to.

My mobile sings out. A text message. Holding the dressing against my arm, I read it, a welcome distraction. It’s S, the friend I text earlier from the coffee shop. I reply, confessing all, commit to a plan of action. Another trip to A&E. Joy of joys. Secure dressing. Find clean socks. Don’t even think about which ones, just the first that come to hand. Makes a nice change. Get my bike. My arm’s screaming now. Idiot. Sit there and pedal, the miles pass without my noticing. Struggle with locking the bike up, brain not functioning. Stand like a muppet at reception. Whisper. Yes, I was here last week. Texts back and forth between me and S. Calls me a silly ass. She’s right. Apologies for not being in touch during the day. No. She’s got it wrong. My choice, my actions, my responsibility.

Patched up by a doctor with a strong accent. Northern European, I think, though I’m always hopeless at guessing. Struggle to understand him so avoid a prolonged examination of my mental state by putting on a mask. I can’t do it very often, be a lot more helpful if I could. Reassure him that if I really wanted to end things, A&E is the last place I’d go. It’s Saturday night, Bank Holiday weekend, not long until the alcohol-fuelled injuries come flooding in. He humours my defiance and lets me go.

S says to come over. Just about make it before I shut down. Too drained to argue when she insists on driving me home rather than letting me cycle. Thankfully also too drained to feel guilty for leaning on her. And scared that the leaning is too much. Seem to spend all my time bouncing from trusting the people in my life to preparing myself for their inevitable departure from it. It was recently suggested that my life is one long pattern of pre-emptive strikes. Scared that it’s true. Suspect it might be.

Home. Let myself feel safe in one last hug. Wave goodbye. Feed the dog. Bed. With the dog. Want the contact with another living being to continue. The dog knows the routine. It’s a treat for her so she curls up small, doesn’t dare move lest she be banished back to her own bed on the floor. I’ve not eaten since lunch so make myself toast and marmite. Eat whilst reading. Crumbs in the bed. Don’t care. Can’t sleep so go back for another hot drink and a second round.

Sleep at last, wonderfully dreamless.

A happy herd of canal pigs (8 April 2012)

Well, unlike their wild counterparts, the piggies don’t get to free range along the canal path, though I dare say they’d love it, but instead live in a field alongside. There are three sows and a whole load of hyperactive and extremely happy piglets, all of whom thoroughly enjoy the fact that they are admired by the passing two-leggers.

His story is remarkable and extremely moving – and highly frustrating. Did you know that at the start of his treatment, a mix up from when he switched racing teams just before his diagnosis meant that he didn’t have any medical insurance? His old company washed their hands of him and the new company wouldn’t accept him as, by the time the cover was due to take effect, he had already been diagnosed and the small print insisted that it did not cover “pre-existing conditions”.

His outgoing team director and friend bullied their insurance company into covering his costs, which was fantastic for this one man facing astronomical fees, but how many ordinary Americans find themselves in exactly the same situation? Access to health care should have absolutely NOTHING to do with one’s ability to foot the bill, whether you’re a celebrity with clout or on the breadline. I simply do not understand why the UK is one of the few countries to offer universal healthcare – surely it’s a no-brainer?

An unrelated photo, simply coz it's St David's Day (17 March 2011)

Earlier today, I walked the dog down to the village to pick up some bits and bobs, and as she and I navigated our way through the aforementioned signs, she suddenly stopped, put all her hackles up and started to bark furiously at Something dead ahead. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shut her up, move her forward or figure out what the hell she was barking at. All I knew was that we were in precisely the wrong place for a Labrador to bark so loudly, as the street’s layout meant that each volley rebounded off the houses and was thrown back at us.

Eventually I managed to drag her on, inch by inch, until she suddenly leapt forwards of her own account. If her stupid human was going to ignore the warning and drag us both into danger, then it was her duty to not just bark in the face of danger, but to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Such a noble gesture, I am blessed by her courage and devotion.

Snipe (10 October 2011)

Shame it was only a plastic road sign which, once sniffed, was dismissed as Not Danger.

I do hope the elderly woman watching this saga made it home ok before she needed to change her pants.

I’ve tried various anti-spam filters for this blog, but none have really worked.

Until now.

I’ve installed a captcha thingy plugin that requires all would-be commenters to answer a (hopefully!) simple maths question to prove they’re a living, breathing human and not a bot. Since installation, it’s had a 100% success rate.

Love pigs, hate spam! (23 August 2008)

Anyway, the wee slip of a thing (younger, taller and slimmer than me – I want to hate her) suggested a change to my happy pills and after some discussion, I agreed. Unfortunately, changing one’s medication isn’t as simple as it sounds. First, you have to wean your body off the current lot, then stop taking them altogether so they can leave your system, and only then do you start all over again on the new ones.

The next three or four weeks are, I suspect, going to be slightly turbulent, but I’m hoping the benefits will eventually outweigh the fun that’s heading my way.

Obligatory steam train photo to illustrate the "all change" post title. Or was the title simply an excuse to use this photo? (30 September 2011)

In other news, the super-early spring is finally giving way to a more wintry weather. Typical, really, as I was starting to ponder the possibility of squeezing into my shorts. Turns out that the cold snap is a good thing, as I’m currently unable to fit into said shorts, no matter how much I squeeze. Methinks someone ate one too many (boxes of) mince pies last month!

It was neck and neck for a while but last week, thanks to some decent weather, several rather flimsy excuses to cycle into town on different days, and a few club rides, I managed to secure my lead by cycling no less than (in fact, a mile and bit more than) two hundred miles in seven days.

I confess I nearly fell off the sofa when I totalled things up towards the end of the week and damn near killed my legs on Sunday morning by making them stay out until I’d passed the 200 mile target, but was feeling horribly pleased with myself right up the moment when I had to ride into town yesterday for an appointment. It didn’t help that I’d forgotten to put my padded shorts on under my jeans, but I winced my way along the road and felt like crawling home.

Mind you, I think it only just about cancelled out the pudding I had on Saturday evening…

Chocolate brownies to die for... And to kill. (21 January 2012)

Diet? What diet?

No, I’m talking something much trickier. Like I said, we’ve got a social do that doesn’t involve tearing off around the countryside on two wheels. Nope, this is a proper, sit-down dinner. With cutlery and everything. I’m told that unintended consequences of innocently claiming that “I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on” can lead to a lot of raised eyebrows from non-cycling partners.

Socialising whilst cycling is a very different kettle of fish to sitting round a table. The dynamics are unequivocally different and – this is the crucial bit for me – if you don’t wish to continue the conversation, you are deprived the solution of speeding up or slowing down to escape.

The obvious solution is to plan beforehand and sit with people you feel most comfortable with … but there’s a twist! In order to get people mingling, after every course, half of each table will get up and sit elsewhere, a game of musical chairs that, in principle, is an excellent idea but fills someone like me with horror.

And so, the coming out. Of course, he was brilliant about it and I have high hopes of getting through the night without succumbing to a panic attack. I’ve done everything possible to manage the situation, now just got to see how it goes on the night and try to avoid thinking about it in the meantime. Gold star for me!

A different way of looking at things? (23 July 2011)

I actually didn’t mean to write so much about it, but rather on the process of coming out as Different. From the perspective of sexuality, the team you bat for has very little impact on the practicalities of events and day-to-day life. Well, so long as you’re not a practising homophobe, but that’s more your problem than anything else.

No, what I’m talking about are differences that DO have a practical effect. On one level, we’re all used to it. Who, for example, hasn’t offered first choice of chairs around the kitchen table to an elderly relative? With varying degrees of tolerance and acceptance, we’re learning to provide a more inclusive environment. Well, for the things you can see, anyhow.

Emotional crap is trickier, in that it’s harder to manage but is also harder (sometimes damn near impossible) to understand and therefore accommodate and how we go about doing that ranges from the excellently empathetic to fear and loathing. Which brings me back to where my mind started to meander when I initially had the idea for this post – whilst we like to be viewed as individuals, names and not numbers, people with our own identities, likes and dislikes, put us together in groups of more than, say, one, and we exude an irrational fear of Being Different, whether that’s being judged as different from the group, and therefore exiled from it, or dealing with the person who is different.

Actually, that’s as far as the thought went, as I was out cycling at the time and had to stop wool-gathering in order to negotiate a tricky junction and having successfully crossed the road (without any poultry attached to me or the bike), I completely forgot about the topic until I updated my ‘bookshelf’ page earlier and thought “oh, I’ve not blogged for a while. Better do something about that.”

So, erm, yes. There you go. Discuss.

Me and Snipe (13 August 2009)

Dogs!