The Ghost of Christmas Humbug

And lo, it came to pass. And it passed. And Christmas became bearable, and then quite cheerful. And there was peace on earth and goodwill to humankind once more. And my sister said she needed to think about the very long letter I wrote to her, the one where I spell out that it's okay to be disabled. And that's progress, believe me. She's thinking. I'm very glad.

You really have my aunt and uncle to thank for this dramatic turnaround in mood (oh, and the fact that I can hold on to a mood at present about as well as an eel in a fast flowing river).

We went to Wiltshire, where naked gardeners live and pigs go on the run from the slaughterhouse. My aunt and uncle are musical types there and are very good at looking after guests, whatever state they arrive in.

My bile was evaporated by good cheer, small acts of kindness (the tea that arrived silently next to my bed when I had all but passed out after finding the journey too much...the Chopin placed on the piano to encourage me to play, alas to no avail but it was the thought) and the large quantities of cordon bleu standard cooking.

It was 24 hours of contentment. And much appreciated. Sadly I am now back in the Midlands. Had I remembered earlier in the week that I was going to Wiltshire, I may never have written Christmas is Bollocks. Which in a way would have been a shame, as I have been humming it on and off in a private joke sort of way. And anyway, I feel that life would be very boring if it were as perfect as life in Wiltshire seems to be all the time. Which is, of course, a complete illusion as my aunt and uncle have just as much to put up with as the rest of us. It's just that they do it in very lovely surroundings.

So yes, for the time being my edges have been softened. And I can daydream about my escape from this complete shithole to delay the return of despondency.

Christmas is Bollocks

Right, forget the compilation CDs because this is the only Christmas song you're going to need. To be sung with gusto (or with Shane MacGowan)...


Christmas is bollocks!
A fa la la la laaaaaaaaa.
Christmas! Bloody bollocks.
A fa la la la laaaaaaaa.

Bollocks to fairy lights
And bollocks to wine
And bollocks to Christmas cards
To thee and to thine.

Christmas is bollocks!
A fa la la la laaaaaaaaa.
Christmas! Bloody bollocks.
A fa la la la laaaaaaaaa.

Bollocks to tinsel
And bollocks to pies
And bollocks to presents
All wrapped up in lies.

Chorus

Bollocks to turkey
And bollocks to cake
And bollocks to everything
It’s all a big fake.

Chorus

Bollocks to crackers
And bollocks to fun
And bollocks to Yuletide
Merry Christmas, everyone!

Christmas is bollocks
We all know its true
Christmas! Bloody bollocks.
And this one’s for YOU.


Ta daaaaaaaaaa! I feel better now. What’s that? Oh sod off. Nuts to you all. Especially brazil nuts. I hate brazil nuts.

I Hate This

My sister yelled at me today:

"You want to be treated like an invalid, like a, a, disabled person. I'm not going to, you're not a disabled person."

I am a disabled person. I screamed it down the phone at her:

"I am a disabled person."

But no, apparently I'm not disabled because I walked in town last weekend. This 'miracle' proves that I am not disabled. Forget the fact that I was in bed for several days after, and went straight into a wisdom tooth infection.

Oh, and my eyes burn too brightly these days, apparently. My sister said in our 'conversation' if it can be called that, that when we met up one time recently my eyes were burning at her like I wanted every word I said to be hung on.

Yes, that is true. My eyes burn this brightly in rage against what I am going through. Yes, I want my every word to be heard. Wouldn't anyone who has experienced wholesale rejection by everyone they once loved? I am so thankful I can say "Except my son." But what a weight on his shoulders. Wouldn't any human being imprisoned and beset by daily bodily tempests, ignored, rejected and isolated, burn too brightly. What was it Dylan Thomas wrote?

"Rage, rage against the dying of the light".

But that is not what I rage at, actually. My Dad did, when he was dying, but I rage at the fact that what I am going through is being treated as a death. I am not dying, and the light is still on!

Hellooooooooooooooooooo, I am still alive people!

Stop burying me.

I Love This

There's something about it that reminds me of fairytales. Probably because I'm reworking one at the moment. I don't understand this song at all! Is that why I love it?