I do not love you - a valentines po-hum

I do not love you

Because you smell

Your farts are like

The bowels of hell

I do not love you

For your stash of cash

Every penny we earn

Is gone in a flash

I do not love you

sometimes I hate you

You always get to

The last chocolate, oo

You wrap your strong arms

Around me at night

And for that I do love you

The nightmares take flight

But you're hot and uncomfy

I long to be free

I'm itchy n sweaty and

I need a wee

I do not love you

You drive me insane

But I do not want anyone

Else as my swain

You annoy and frustrate me

In every way

And yet I do love you

Happy Valentines Day

Ah, Didsbury.... Yes.... Sit down, we need to talk

I am a big fan of the Sunday roast. The succulent meat, crispy roast potatoes and creamy mash and roast parsnips are a necessity. I'm flexible on the veg, but it should include carrots and something green and leafy. Yorkshire puddings are of course essential whatever the meat, as is gravy. I have to say I do a mighty fine roast myself and, perhaps therein lies the problem.

Whilst the Bear and I love to cook, we also do like to eat out and there is something truly decadent about having a Sunday Roast in a restaurant, before strolling home for a snooze. We were lucky that close to our previous abode, there was a pub that excelled in the Sunday carvery, and we would stroll over to partake of their fare fairly often.

Now we have moved, but to an area brimming with restaurants, pubs, bars and eateries. My Just-Eat options alone number in the hundreds and one cannot walk more than 10 minutes I'm any direction without finding a niche cafe with mismatched chairs and home made cake. I decided to embrace my new environment by trying out their Sunday offerings.

And this is why we need to talk, Didsbury. Not about Sunday roasts per se, but about roast beef. I think it's important to be absolutely clear on this. Roast beef should not be grey, it should not be crispy, it should not sit like a Burnt offering on the plate. Roast beef should be pink and juicy and melt in the mouth. The gravy should just be for fun, not a moistener! Twice now the Bear and I have turned up at one of your establishments and ordered the roast beef. And twice have we been disappointed with the meat. You have the accoutrements down pat. Dauphinoise potatoes are not easy to do, trust me I've tried! And such huge Yorkshire puddings! Yummy. But the beef darling, the beef was overcooked, dry and dull and frankly, when we were the first diners, that's quite hard to do.

You need to pull your socks up, Didsbury. I'm thinking of cooking my own beef next week and none of us want that. To recap: pink, juicy, rare and succulent. These are the words you're seeking. If I may, dig out your Delia: She is the goddess of all things culinary and you need her help. Ok, Didsbury, I'll let you catch your breath and I'll see you in a week or two. 

Coming out of the frog box

I went back to work today after 3 1/2 months off with a major depressive episode. As part of my rehabilitation, I have had meetings with my manager and a rep from Human Resources. During these meetings I told them all about bipolar disorder, ibs and hypothyroidism, gave them documents printed from MIND and even showed them my dosset box to illustrate what it's like living with a mental illness. They were rather shocked at the pile of pills, which amused me no end! As I say, "I take all these just to appear normal!"

Rather sweetly, I thought, my manager referred to my openness in his summary letter, thanking me and saying that he really appreciated my willingness to discuss my illness.

I have always been open about my conditions. It is what makes me, me and I am not ashamed of it. I have always known there was something 'wrong' with me, so to have the diagnosis and validation was more of a relief!

When I was a teenager, my parents would say I was "manic depressive" and "just like your aunt / grandmother". But of course in the early 80s there was no Internet to look things up and mental health wasn't discussed. My father's distrust of psychiatrists meant that I never saw a doctor. Later on I attempted to self medicate as many others do. I was treated for my depressive episodes with anti depressants, but my manic episodes were never 'reported' since I was having too much fun! It wasn't until Stephen Fry 'came out' as bipolar that I started to investigate the illness and found myself resonating with the description. Then, some 7 years ago now, I finally plucked up the courage to tell my doctor about the ups and downs. And the rest, as they say, is history. 

There is no shame in having a mental quirk. Its part if what makes you an individual. And whilst it may debilitate you from time to time, it also is responsible for your openness to new ideas, your empathy and creativity. And that's pretty cool. How can we expect people not up be afraid or confused by our behaviour, if we are not willing to discuss it? If we want to be accepted, don't we need to accept ourselves?

Why, there's a wench! Sex and violence, Bard style

I love going to the theatre. I love the thrill when the lights go down and the curtain rises. And I'm lost in another world. I laugh, I cry, I gasp in horror. I can go through so many emotions I am exhausted by the time the play is over, and it's time to race back to the car, only to talk of nothing but what we've seen for days.

Sometimes, you're lucky enough to see a groundbreaking or life changing performance. It might be a single actor giving his or her all to the role. Or it might be an ensemble that works so well together, you lose yourself entirely in their make believe. And that's what happened when we went to see The Propeller company perform Twelfth Night and Taming of the Shrew. 

The Propeller theatre company are an all male troupe, who 'do' Shakespeare as it was done in Shakespeare's time. And, it turns out, do it very very well.

We first saw Twelfth Night, a comedy of mistaken identities, drunken cavorting and unrequited love. Plenty of laughs, often involving the debauched activities of Sir Toby Belch, his chum, his floozy and his fool.  The scene in the garden is just hysterical! Chris Myles' Malvolio is a sight to be seen having taken 'cross gartering' to a new level... This is then balanced against the touching scenes between Viola/Cesario and Duke Orsino and the Countess Olivia and Viola/Cesario. As the lovelorn Viola, Joseph Chance broke my heart and I wanted it never to end. 

The music is provided by the ensemble themselves, and becomes part of the action on stage rather than something separate. Wearing white masks, the ensemble are musicians, statues, props and in my mind somewhat similar to the chorus in Ancient Greek plays.

We left that night, delighted that we were to return the next for the Taming.

Like perhaps a lot of people, my experience of Taming of the Shrew was a mix of Kiss Me Kate and 10 Things I Hate About You. So I was quite unprepared for the drama.

Vince Leigh went from the piteous drunk, Sir Toby Belch, to conniving suitor Petruchio overnight. And never have I been so appalled by and attracted to a man at the same time. His violence and cruelty to Katherine made the audience squirm, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one getting pretty hot around the décolletage whenever he was on stage.

There are laughs a plenty too - the bard is the king of farce and these boys were definitely up for it as well. Arthur Wilson gave a fabulously trashy performance as favourite younger daughter Bianca, flirting away with her 'tutors'.

But for me the relationship between the feisty Katherine and Petruchio stole the show. Dan Wheeler gave us a gothic Kate, intelligent and angry, who is driven to despair by her ruthless husband. To watch her lose her will and defiance and bow to her 'lord' was uncomfortable for the audience. It affected me deeply - so deeply that it inspired me to write this blog.

The Propeller Theatre are currently touring with Twelfth Night and Taming of the Shrew. If they are coming anywhere near you, I heartily recommend that you go. You will not be disappointed.

http://propeller.org.uk/

 

A good support network is like a good bra...

It's been a while, I know, poem notwithstanding. I have been pretty poorly having had a major depressive episode that I am only just now coming out of (3 months later). Throughout this time I have been totally reliant on my husband-carer and my support network, and they have been terrific. The doc did his bit, but as this episode has a very definite cause, there wasn't much he could do, apart from give me the necessary certificates.

Having a support network is a vital part of crawling out of a bipolar hole. From the friend who said "Come for dinner. You don't even have to stay and chat, just come and eat." To the chum who texted me all through the day to make sure I was awake alive and aware. From all my onine chums, making me laugh and feel like i belong, to the chum who kept me up to date with what was going on at work and sent me such lovely messages. These are the people who help you to see a better day is on its way. They are also a support network to Bear, taking him out when he needs to get away from the sobbing ball of snot, offering an ear and a beer!

I'm slowly becoming myself again. Taking each day as it comes. Sometimes I have rubbish nights which lead to "small" days, where everything is difficult and tiring. But they are getting fewer and I can usually see them coming.

It is thanks to Bear and my wonderful support network that I am here today. And that I can smile. You are the bra of my emotions: soft, supportive, you give me shape and Bear hope, and you're a relief to get rid of at the end of the day!!

A pome by me

I thought we had a connection, 

You and I

We had met but twice, yet

In those swift exchanges

I felt something stir

I thought you were the one

That we would be us.

And you said you loved us.

You thought we were great.

You told us our warmth was perfect,

That you could see yourselves

Here, forever.

And then in a heartbreaking move,

One never anticipated:

You made an offer on another house,

And it was accepted

So now we return

Wiser perhaps,

Less naive certainly,

To the ocean of houses

On rightmove.co.uk

To await the coming of those who see

What wonders could lie in this old home.

London Bridge didn't fall down, so there's still hope.

New house is starting to reveal its hidden flaws. As the plaster comes off, so the cracks in the brickwork start to become evident. Under the carpet, underlay so old, it's mostly dust particles and under that? Cracked and uneven concrete.
The monies put aside for new windows and a new kitchen are being funnelled into the builder fund. Friends of friends of friends are being marshalled into the fold of professional air suckers and head shakers and we are spending our days off showing different bits to different chaps with clipboards.

To answer your immediate question (and I can say this with some authority as both the people I spoke to today have asked it): no it wasn't on the survey. And the follow up question? No they are not responsible.

My sister asked "What made you think this was a good idea?" And I have to admit, the same thought has strolled across my mind once or twice. But I still feel happy whenever I'm there. Even with the wallpaper and plaster everywhere. It is a happy house. And I love the location. One day it will be perfect. And I will look back on this blog and laugh. One day...