Therapy attempt number 3,456,278 in Love, life and laundry.

Ok, so I exaggerate. I started writing this entry in a notebook this morning, whilst I had an hour, or so, to kill without a reliable connection or keyboard.

It’s a literary notebook which sounds ever so clever but just means there’s a quotation every few pages. This morning it was, “Never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time” Charles Dickens

Could be the quotation of my life, if procrastination were an olympic sport I’d have a lot of gold postboxes around where I live!

So my entry went like this (edited only to remove the names of innocents)…

Apt quotation!

1st meeting with new therapist (have yet to pick a nick-name)

Super early as had bloods taken at 9. Got to go back to the surgery on the way home to pick up ‘fit note’. Bloody receptionists made that a nightmare, think they receive special training. The Delectable Dr Tim is on leave (how bloody dare he?!) So Dr Who signed me off until he returned. He wasn’t clear if he was going to do it for three weeks or four weeks. I guess it’ll be a surprise when I collect. Of course, despite speaking to him at 0825 and him writing the thing whilst I was on the phone with him, there was no way he could have it ready for me to collect when I went there for bloods at 9. I know, Drs are busy people. Just sometimes wish they realised that their patients were as well.

Hmmm. Sods law, made a coffee to sit and drink whilst I was waiting and despite normally having the bladder of a camel I now need a wee.

Phone run out of juice because I managed to leave the flashlight app on somehow, and failed to notice somehow. Now sat here with bugger all to do and still 45 minutes to go.

Listening to Woman’s Hour. They are talking about Anna Kareina. I hate that book. Still never quite managed to make it all the way through, was close last time, had a couple of chapters left and that took months. It’s one of those books I feel I should have read. Bit like I should eat breakfast every day and should exercise for 30 minutes every day.

Blimey! This place is swarming with emmets. I guess I am parked outside the ‘oldest pub in Plymouth’ (Although I know at least 2 other establishments that lay claim to that title). A few French and lots and lots of British. All mostly wieldling unwieldy maps and discussing or arguing about just how lost they are. I should offer to help but I’d much rather just be a passive observer. I am not liking people much lately.

Snort A more mature, ever so slightly alternative looking woman has just walked up the street. I bet myself that she was bound for the psycho place and then chided myself for stereotyping…bugger me if she didn’t just walk straight into the damn place!

Do we think I can walk in early and ask to use their loo? Perhaps not.

Christ! I’ve smoked nearly an entire packet of cigarettes this morning. Really must stop.

Hmm. Father Christmas is now walking down the road. Now you know where he lives in summer. Definitely a liver and not a visitor. He has the downtrodden look of most of the Plymouth masses. Also a grubby T-shirt and fleece, a wobbly gate and a tell tell brown paper bag that keeps making the passage from fist to dribbling gob. And here was I thinking that all alcoholics now-a-days were the middle classes supping too much beajoulais of an evening.

Gah! They’re now talking about pic-nics on the radio. I’m really rather famished. I want to work for the company that’s being covered (a psychotherapists oddly). They have pic-nics most days in the summer and a “shared cheese box”. Can’t see me getting away with that in the office. Even with a box there would be complaints about the smell.

So, I’m in. Lovely building from the outside. One of the bits of Plymouth that Hitler failed to flatten. Tall with beautiful big sash windows. I was just thinking how welcoming it all looked when I tried the door. Reached for the knob without look (said the actress to the bishop), locked. When I did look I was met by a remarkably sturdy, metal enforced barricade. I guess that’s to keep the crazies out … or in.

Sofa in the waiting room is deliciously battered, worn leather. Unfortunately the cushions are less deliciously worn and battered, tried to sit down and let out an ‘oomph!’ as it felt like I was lowered to the floor. Getting out of it will be interesting…
It’s the sort of sofa one could imagine in a lovely old coutry pud. Log fire raoring next to it. Perfect for sinking into on a wet wintery day providing one has an obligatory hot chocolate and trashy novel.

Apparently, Nick-name to be decided, normally practices from the top floor. Thats not one, but two flights of stairs. Receptionist looks at me skeptically and asks if I can manage. No, I bloody well can’t manage is what I want to say. Whilst trying to find the socially acceptable way of phrasing this my pause does the job and she says she’ll ask if an exception can be made this once.

Ah ha! The man himself is here and I am being summoned

…

Home again So when does this shit fix me? It’s been like an hour already and all I have is a dry mouth. Psychotherapy should come with similar list of side affect as oxycodone. Dry mouth, may feel fatigued and sleepy after an hour Let’s just hope it doesn’t constipate me any more!

Poo talk is too much? A step too far? Please move on you must have the wrong blog. My life goes through periods of being dominated by poo and it follows therefore; as an accurate (or at least my view of accurate) record of my life, this blog will too go through periods obsessed with poo.

Just in case someone takes me seriously, the para above one is rather tongue in cheek. I say this because I posted to Facebook, “First session of psychotherapy completed and other than slightly dry mouth I feel no different” and the first response was…” You wnt yet Hun, give it time x”[sic]. I shit you not! (see what I did there?!)

So, Nick-name to be decided, seems nice. Like biscuits are nice. He was personable, seems bright enough and probably won’t take any crap (ta-dah! there it is again!).Being downstairs is apparently not a problem which is good because being upstairs is definitely a problem.

I rambled for an hour. Apparently I am independent and talk quickly. Proper Sherlock Holmes deductions there!

I’m being unfair. It went well enough and I think I’ll stick with him. Mostly because the other therapist I was going to see apparently has a thick westcountry accent and I just don’t fancy writing about ‘Janner-Bird’ for the foreseeable.

A bonus was that he didn’t wear socks and sandals.

I might call him the one armed bandit…not terribly original but he does only have one arm. I suspect he’s ‘armless. Boom! Boom!

On a serious note this makes him a good candidate as a lot of my angst is around finding myself disabled and the frustrations and limitations this puts on life. Whilst most folk get this, only those with a disability get this. If you see what I mean.

Picked up fit note and signed off for 4 weeks. Hope the sun keeps shinning. Everything is more bearable when the sun shines. That I have have a number of green tomatoes and chillies that need ripening.Is it one L or two? I always get confused by that one. Have no problems spelling necessary, the most misspelt word (along with misspelt) in the English language but chili or chilli, chilies or chillies?

Oh the mundanity that is my existence.

Was sat in the lovely sunshine to type this up but now the clouds keep coming over and it is chilly - that one is definitely with two Ls

I should probably engage in some low impact exercise or even worse do the ironing. Instead I think I might go to bed with tablet and catch up with some old favourites - are they still favourites? I mean the descriptor and nothing more meaningful. Perhaps they are now friends or followers or trenders… I wish there was just one descritor

Anon
Fi