I could worry until the cows come home.

Would I ever allow something to stop me doing what I want to do? Depends what that thing is. If it's transport trouble, or weather, or illness - yes, it may well stop me. But what if the thing which stops me is me? More precisely, what if it were my anxiety which stopped me doing what I've dreamed of doing since I was 15, since I saw the coverage on BBC Two, late at night, at that special extended weekend in some fields in Somerset?

Last year, in October, I bought a ticket to go to Glastonbury. I know I'm very lucky to have been able to get one. Luckily, so did a friend of mine, as we plan to go there together. We were both awake earlyish on that Sunday morning, waiting for the website to crash. It did, many times. Countless times. But we each succeeded in (not literally) getting our hands on a ticket.

When Radiohead played Glastonbury in 1997, and the coverage was, as ever, on BBC Two at something past 11:00pm, my lovely Little Nan was staying with us. She used to stay on the sofa so, I got the video set up to record the highlights programme and then get out of the way so she could sleep. I didn't mind. She was my Nan and I'd have done anything for her. I still would, if she were still here.
Thom and chums played that huge stage and the crowd was enormous, glowing and loud, full of life and joy. And I vowed I'd do that one day. I thought, "One day, I'll go there. I won't feel intimidated by my own fears, I won't give in to anxiety, I won't be scared of panic attacks."

And yet, here I am, having bought a ticket to fulfil my years-old dream of festival wonders, new places, a mini holiday with not much in the way of cleaning facilities, every chance of minimal sleep and lots and lots of people. All I keep thinking about is if I'll panic. "What if I can't sleep?" and "What if I feel sickly and anxious, and retch and panic so completely stupidly?" bounce around my mind like Tigger. Playing table tennis. On a trampoline.

How can I let these thoughts dictate my life? If I get anxious in a shop, or at my relatives' homes 200-odd miles away or at my "safe place", at home, I may as well be anywhere. I could become panicked about being so far from home. I could be unable to sleep properly or at all. I could get very cold at night. Equally, of course, I could not. All could be well and I may have a supreme time at an incredible festival with so much to see and do, more than can be experienced in three days.


The way my brain works annoys the HELL out of me, because it is my brain and I should be able to control it. Shouldn't I? If yes, why can't I, sometimes? Why does it cause me so many problems? Is it actually me causing the problems? Is it some subconscious defence mechanism? And, if it were, it's a rubbish one, because we're meant to move forward with life and do things we don't want to do, but by not doing those things, we become stagnant, and dull, and depressed. I'm already the latter; I don't want to the other two to happen to me.


Perhaps my previous blog post was more apt - ARSE.

I am Gluteus Maximus!

...does that translate as "I am arse!"? It's probably true. Probably...


On this, the third "heavy" day of my period but the fourth actual day (wearing JEANS!), I had an appointment to see my GP to be injected with goserelin, better known as Zoladex. This is the substance which will stop the ovaries functioning. And that means menopause. If you've read the previous post, you'll be aware of the operation and what happened after it.

Neither my GP nor I was certain about the dose and form of administration. At first, it was assumed it would be an implant, requiring a local anaesthetic. Fine. I won't feel the wide-bore needle, so that should be fine! Oh. What's that? It's an intra-muscular form? As in... must be injected into a muscle? Where's that, you say? In my ARSE? Oh. It's the same size of needle as used by phlebotomists, so it'll be fine. Won't it? Yes.

And it was. But now? In all that is holy in the name of BISCUITS, I wasn't told it'd hurt this much. I can barely walk. I'm being a wussy little girl; when I think about the needle for too long, I start feeling woozy, and need to sit down. Or lie down. Was I being too optimistic, hoping I'd be mobile, still? Is it unreasonable to feel yet more enraged that my body is stopping my decisions from being turned into actions? They're not vastly important things. I wanted to make a bag, a little project to keep me busy, give me "something to think about". It'll probably end up resembling a dinosaur with wings but that's not the point. I bought the fabric. I will do it. Just... not yet.



Zoladex, Premique, Citalopram, co-dydramol, keral. Body, brain, body. Anyone want to swap? I'll fight you? (I won't. I'm a wuss, remember.)


And we don't have a stair lift. How AM I going to get up those stairs? The time now is 22:38. If I start climbing now, I could make it upstairs by midnight.

Is this the endo my pain?

Probably not, no.

I was lying in my hospital bed on Monday 15th March this year, after the laparoscopy, when the consultant I had seen several times since 2008 came to see me. He had been "in clinic", over the other side of the hospital. He hadn't been able to perform the surgery; he was meant to on the previous Thursday but various occurrences meant my operation had to be postponed.

The decision was made, by me, to have a laparoscopy to find out, once and for all, "if" there was anything "wrong" relating to my womb, ovaries and/or ladybits. Some of you may be aware that, from the age of 18, I have been continually told there was nothing wrong and my irregular, heavy, prolonged and insanely agonising periods were something I would "grow out of" or that would "settle down" in time. The pain before and after periods and the bleeding between them was also not something I ought to concern myself about.

Not only have I been told that my pain was "psychological", I was also told that I was "too young for anything to be wrong with (my) ovaries, darling". And, that the only thing which would cause the sharp, tight, stabbingly-sharp pains in my lower right abdomen was "endometriosis of the ovaries, which you don't have", the non-surgery-performing-but-bed-visiting consultant said.


Still in immense pain after the laparoscopy with my awesome Ma beside me, I was told, by the NSPBBV consultant, that during the operation, the Mega-neat surgeon discovered that there "was endometriosis on both ovaries". We found out later in the patient copy letter from the Mega-neat consultant who performed the surgery, that it was also present on the posterior uterine wall and the left pelvic side wall. In the letter, it states that the larger right side (ovary) had to be drained. This accounts for, not just the pains with periods and between them (every day, in fact) but also the amount of pain after waking from surgery; he used diathermy to remove the endometriosis he found. That essentially means my innermost ladyparts were burned, hence the incredible agony I felt, not to mention the utterly horrendous "wind" pains in my right shoulder and chest. I mentioned it. Oh.

Less than a second after the NSPBBV consultant said those ground-breaking words, I sobbed. My right hand somehow hurled itself to my eyes, which then started leaking, as well as my nose. Messy. I wasn't crying because I'd finally been told what was wrong with me, or because I knew what it meant from now, onwards. Rather, I cried because I was so disappointed, I had been so terribly let down by people whom I trusted to help me, but instead, they neglected to do their job. They neglected me, allowed me to suffer so much unspeakable agony for so many years. I knew what was wrong with me, I knew, completely, that endometriosis was the cause of my pain. I'd tried to tell "them" so many times what my pain was like, but I was stopped mid-sentence, ignored, patronised and insulted.

What happens now? What do I do? Zoladex injections, every 28 days and Premique. What are they? Well, click the words and find out! Or, I can tell you, not very coherently. It is late as I type this and really need to sleep, but this is the third draft of this post and I just want to get it done. So, Zoladex will halt to ovaries for a few months, inducing a menopause. The break from periods occurring should (hopefully) give me a rest from feeling so tired. All the time. From aching, head to toe, and feeling like my womb is trying to cut its way out of my abdomen. And the Premique is a form of HRT, to try to counteract the menopausal symptoms.


There are no guarantees with this (unfairly-named, to my mind) "disease". I prefer "condition". It is not curable, but can be managed. However, "can" does not mean "will". Some women are lucky, and have no pain, while others have immense pain which can not be controlled. And even hysterectomies and double oophorectomies are not certain to stop the pain. Some women have hormone treatment for some months and are free from pain. But the condition will still be there, it just may not "happen" again.

Since my surgery (with MEGA-neat stitches and wounds, and now scars. Did I mention? Super stuff! Tiny entry sites. Amazing...), I have had a period - on the Wednesday, just 2 days after the operation. It was bloody painful, if you excuse the pun. Less painful than I expected but still enough to wake me at 5am and make me nearly fall down the stairs to get a Keral in my face. Took much longer to work than the 20 minutes the NSPBBV consultant told me but hey, never mind, EH? It actually took around 40 minutes to work.


And now, I await another period. I haven't had a day or, indeed, hour without pain. Apart from sleep. If there was pain, I haven't noticed it, so bedrugged am I with anti-depressants and codeine. (I shan't go into details - although it may be too late, now - but the amount of codeine I had made for a toilet situation vaguely similar to that experienced by Lisa Lynch in her ASTOUNDING blog, AlrightTit. I am also so stupendously proud to call Lisa an actual real life friend of mine, all thanks to the wonder that is Marsha Shandur, via the world of Twitter. (I went to Lisa's Super Sweet 30th birthday party in London in September last year with the equally AMAZING Amanda, but didn't get to meet Marsha. Good news for her...)

For 10 days I have had the familiar pre-period pains and heavy, dragging, relentlessness of my womb and parts. It would seem, then, that the surgery to remove the endometriosis was partially successful; bits were taken away/burned, but the pain of it all is still happening. Bugger. Today is day 30 of my "cycle" and I don't have a clue when it will start. It may be another 2 days, or 2 weeks. I'm not just impatient with my body (even though I know I can do nothing, actively, to stop it hurting); the sooner the period starts, the sooner the Zoladex injections can be started. Must be administered, subcutaneously (in the stomach), within 5 days of a period starting. As the NPSBBV man said, "(my) body needs a rest". NOW.


So, altogether now... HURRY FUCKING UP!!

Open letter/email regarding my love for music.

If you discard 6 Music...


...you rip the heart and soul out of each music-adoring person who loves that station, for whom it is the only station on the ENTIRE radio network worth listening to. Not just for me, 6 Music has accompanied countless nights and days, along with its sessions of such high quality, the brilliantly wide range of music-loving presenters and their obvious desire to play music THEY love, which is what WE love, too.

There are TWO Radio One stations, neither of which commands respect or attention due to its dire and repetitive playlist, and its (mostly) inane and shrilling "presenters". And there are TWO Radio Fives, when one suffices! One of each was enough, so why and how on Earth did anyone think there was a need for another? And another?

To hear the people who present the programmes on 6 Music enjoy the music as much as we do and be so excited by it, is such a thrill for us. They BELIEVE in the music, they LOVE the music and they LOVE the station like we do.
To have that incredible mix of music, the newest possible tracks with the oldest and most varied songs of decades ago is unbelievably good.
To have Guy Garvey, Bob Dylan and Jarvis Cocker presenting on 6 Music along with Andrew Collins, Shaun Keaveny, Marc Riley, Steve Lamacq, Gideon Coe, Liz Kershaw, Richard Bacon... that's not even counting the astounding shows with Craig Charles, the rock shows, the documentaries, the archives... These people are supreme in their field and the output is as varied as it is excellent. And ALL of this is on 6music. That is, literally, amazing.

It is SO GOOD. And good is not found very often these days; satisfactory is not good enough. But 6 Music is better than it needs to be, and that is what sets it apart from the rest, the less good, the not good enough.

The passion, maturity, utterly superb talent and such wonderfully eclectic music that is present on 6 Music are to be found nowhere else in, on or among this country's radio stations. I implore you to think about this ridiculous decision to rid the BBC, this country and its devoted and intelligent listeners of something which doesn't need to be hidden away in a digital world; why is it not an FM station? If people aren't given the chance to hear this wonderful and, at times, magical station, how will it ever become more popular? How will people without DAB radios ever hear it and its wonder?


I love and adore and cherish 6 Music; it's the only reason I wanted a digital radio. I don't listen to anything else on it. It's always and only 6 Music.



We love it. I love it. Please don't take it away from us. Please don't take it away from me.




Lucy Palmer.

Jaffa cakes aren't biscuits...

They dunk well, but go soggy if left too long. And chocolate ends up in the tea, which isn't the point of tea. But still. Good show.

I'm planning a weekend in London soon. I've never been to London for a weekend. The thought of it both excites me and intimidates me. City life is so different to what I know and where I live. It's uncitylike here. I live next to a field. I hear the cows and sheep and cockerels that live on the farm. We don't have a train station. There are 3 very near here, but my town, such as it is, doesn't have one.

My life has never been full of trains and commuting and the hustle and bustle that goes with that life. Because I've never had a job, I've never had to get a train or a bus or drive somewhere, along with everyone else, with responsibility and tasks and meetings and deadlines. Or the like.
And because of the way depression affected me in my teens, it stunted my confidence, thus preventing me from growing into the young woman I wanted to be. And I'm still not that person, because I don't do the things I so yearn to do.
Being around lots of people isn't something I'm used to. I sometimes find it overwhelming, and it makes me feel unsure about what to do or say, if anything. But that's not to say I don't want to be in those situations.

So, the weekend in London is a huge event for me. I shall be meeting new people and seeing new places. I've been invited to a party, which promises to be immensely exciting and such fun. The next day, I'll be meeting yet more new people, when I attend a "do" in a park.

Regarding trains and the journeys, when I arrive at my destination, I see buildings higher than any in the nearby "main" town, hundreds more people than I'm used to, more noise than my ears have heard in my familiar territory of flatlands. "My" town is so small that everyone sees at least 5 people they know when they walk to the shops. There are not that many shops, admittedly. Nor that many people...

Of course, it's not unique to me, this being slightly apprehensive about new places and people. It's not the tall buildings, the unknown roads, nor even the ker-azy disco buses that put me on edge. What really concerns me... is me. My mind. My occasional inability to stop panic attacks. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes, in these unusual yet often exciting situations, I have no trouble and am so relaxed. Other times, even when "things" are OK, By that, I mean, "things" are OK. Lately, "things" have been going fairly nicely. I've been moody and tired and... well, I've been depressed. As now. At least, now as I type.

This is in no small part due to the fact that I'm a hypocrite. I admit that. For example, I love animals but I still eat them in pork, fish (it's a dead animal, so it counts), chicken, beef, et al, form. I'm not brave enough to kill an animal and gut it and pluck it or skin it. I am a hypocrite.
I have told people I know - who are on anti-depressant treatment - who have said they may stop taking their tablets, not to do so. It's not a wise decision to make. Not by oneself, anyway. But then I did that. Well done, Lu. Well. Fucking. Done. I am not, it seems, immortal. I "wobbled". I tumbled down that horrible, bumpy, tearful slope back to depressionville. Hello! Not been here for a while. Bugger. I'd rather be in London...


So, now I'm planning this huge event, this lone trip to London, when I am mid-"wobble". Is it sensible? Possibly not. But I don't really care for sensible. I am careful, but sensible is boring. It is dull. I want adventure and random fun and spontaneity; to go to London and meet my friends, to stay with them for a few hours, or overnight; to eat in cafes and walk around the roads and parks and hidden shops they are so used to, for it is all so new and exciting to me. It's uh-mazing.

That's the life I want. Not for everything to be amazing. Rather, for what I just typed to be what I can do, and not think about it; for me to do it and not study the photos of the stations and the routes I have to take so that I don't get lost; so that I can sleep easily in a friend's spare room or sofa or in a hotel room and not wake with a start that I'm not in my own bed and think OH MY GOD I must have to panic... which is utterly ridiculous. But, rational thinking has never played a part in anxiety and panic attacks. Which is sort of part of the reason they happen: they are not rational. At all. Not even minutely. They also are not harmful, physically. It's all about the depression. Even more fucking annoying.


But... I have to remember that presently, I am getting back to an evenness I so stupidly sacrificed because for a few weeks, I skipped too many tablets. That will take some more weeks for me to feel right, I suspect. Quite touchingly, I was told by a very lovely friend to "TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF". Yes, sir. *Salutes.*
I'm also very confused about my periods. They still hurt like hell but not for as long as before Mirena. They are shorter and lighter, too, but this is not what I'm used to. It's strange. My hormones still seem to be pissing about, somewhat, making me feel even more ugh.
As well as the above, there is a problem I haven't really mentioned before. It's taking its toll, still, months after I thought it'd ended. It's very difficult to cope with sometimes and I don't know what to do about it. It makes me feel physically and emotionally unwell, besides the depression. But maybe that is what's making me feel worse? Or maybe it's all of these things...?
And then, of course, all this cancer crap with The Ma. Which still doesn't seem real.


Inevitably, I feel, I am both incredibly excited and nervous (about IF I'll get anxious. DUH Lu. DUH.) about London. I think it's a wonderful city. It's not just full of some wonderful people, fascinating architecture and important history; it's the city in which a lot of my family were born and raised, where they lived and worked. That's wonderful, to me.


Bumpy, steep hills are not easy to climb. Especially when you live in the flattest area of the country and don't want to break your nails before the party. I have some particularly lovely friends who make me smile, who have kept and will keep me smiling on my dark days, whether they know it or not. Aside from my family and music, they keep me going. And in one case, she's the one who'll get me to London and together, we'll have much London fun. Like Bill and Ted.


You ready, Amanda?

And then there were five.

Cats aren't for everyone. Nor dogs. Nor any animals, sometimes. It's no secret, if you know me at all, that I adore animals, especially cats. A few hours ago on this Sunny, warm Saturday morning, we had 6 cats. Now, we have "only" 5 and it feels cold, and empty in this home of ours. Our family has lost one of its integral parts. It's missing and grieving one of the components which made our home a home, not just a house in which we all reside.

We welcomed the orange twosome, Cyril and Charlie, into our home in 1992, a few weeks after we moved in. They were about 10-weeks-old and upped our feline count to 6 bundles of purring furriness. Gilly and Guinness (brothers), Sidney, Thomas and Cyril and Charlie. Most were rescue cats: Gilly and Guinness were no longer able to stay with their previous owners; Sidney was abandoned on a rubbish tip and, despicably, had his nose set on fire; Cyril and Charlie were born and not wanted. Only Thomas was a pet shop cat. Marmaduke, his brother, decided to live next-door-but-one before we moved. Probably, being fed by the neighbour helped to lure him... THANKS.

Feline Infectious Peritonitis struck soon after. It's a terrible disease, extremely distressing for the animal and owner, alike. Sometimes, these things happen. They just do. It's never pleasant and always heartbreaking.

Gilly was the first to show signs. His breathing very quickly became laboured. He wouldn't eat. He was tested for FIP and it was confirmed he had it. The others were promptly tested and the results showed that Sidney, Thomas and Charlie has contracted it, too. Their lives would get worse, rapidly and it was an horrendous decision to make but we all knew the least cruel way to deal with the situation was for Gilly, Sidney, Thomas and Charlie to be put to sleep. How Guinness and Cyril didn't catch it is astonishing. They all mixed together, ate together, cleaned each other, slept in the same beds...

Having only 2 cats around was so peculiar. So empty.
Then, along came T.C., another rescue cat. He was hit by a car, the vet reckoned. He came home, crawled under my brother's motorbike and went to sleep.
Our 2 girls, Emily and Rosie, were the next fluffballs to live here. So, then, we had 4 cats. A better number.
A few years went by and ohh, shall we have another cat? Yes. Let's. In Summer, 2000, Ma and I went to the local rescue cat sanctuary. We saw a stunning ginger cat called Harvey. Homeless, on the streets for months, at least. So timid, so frightened. There was a bouncy black and white boy called Fritz, with the most charming of meaows. And there was a little black cat called Wallace, who was incredibly friendly. I was warned to not put my hands near the cage in case he scratched or bit but I knew he wouldn't. And he didn't.

So, after going there to get A cat, we came home with Fritz (soon after, Fitz - connotations regarding a sort of bestial feline didn't sit well with us) and Harvey. So, we had 6 cats! Lovely. So lovely. But we couldn't help thinking of Wallace. He was an immediate darling of a cat. SO friendly. SO affectionate. SO. CUTE. SO ours. My Little Brown Bear. I'm a cat person. I have to have stupid names for my cats. It's the law.

Pieman was an over-the-road cat. His lovely, kind owner, our neighbour, had become very ill, indeed, and could no longer live on his own, so had to go to hospital and then, to a residential home. So, we took Pieman. Pie. Pieface. Chunky Pie. Fat Pie. Poi maaaan. He loves it.

And so, our collection of cats numbered 8, until Harvey suffered a cardiac arrest and died in my arms in 2005. Guinness was 15 when he died in 2006. And now Mummy's boy Cyril, my little lion, our Squirrel, has gone, too. Just this morning. At about half past ten.

Despite having felt this so many times, it never gets easier. So then, why do we do it? Why do we have animals when we know, when they have to go, it'll be as heartbreaking as ever it was? It hurts. It's so horrid, when you want them to walk in, to jump up on the sofa and nudge you with their face, to make you let them sit on your lap, even when you have no room. You expect them to be there, at the door, asking to be let in or out, drinking out of the sink, eating grass they really shouldn't, clawing the carpets and looping the curtains.

Cyril was 17-years-old. The vet reckons it was cancer of the stomach/intestine. Cancer gets everywhere. I still hate it. And I miss Cyril so much already, even though he's only been gone a few hours. The comfort we have now, is that he's not going to hurt. He's back with Charlie and Guinness, whom he utterly adored.

We have Emily, Rosie, Fitz, Wallace and Pieman. They each know something is wrong, that something is missing. They know we feel sad. They always do. Cats are clever. Sometimes, though, they are stupid. Emily is a good example of this. She is dim. But I love her more than words can say. She is a beautiful, friendly, fluffy bundle of joy and she is sort of clever, really, despite her crossed eyes. She's doing OK, for a 14-year-old, likewise Rosie.

But I want to hear Cyril jump up on the worktop, like he did yesterday. I want him to stop me typing by walking over my arms and resting his head on my hand. I want him to sit across my legs, awkwardly, so I can't move.


G'night, Little Squirrel.

Really taking the piss...

...goodness. Has it really been so long since my last blog post? Apparently. It's been an interesting, if emotionally and physically very difficult, time.

The one thing that never seems to change is still my periods. This one made me wait 5 weeks until its arrival. I felt drained for a week before, at least. Constant aches all over; it felt like pure ache had been injected into the bones. Insomnia returned, my appetite left and I was a useless hobbling, waddling berk. The period pains were present, as they always seem to be, days before it actually started, which was Friday last week. So this is day 7. Keral is OK. Tranexamic acid definitely helps. It's reduced the total bleeding time from 10 days to 7 or 8, which can only be a good thing. But the pain is still awful and so, I still have to have co-dydramol and for various complicated reasons, I can not keep taking it. I can't do it anymore. I can't explain to you how terrible I feel as I type this, how emotional and unwell I am and how desperately I want my life to not be this way.

I'm so eager to book my next longed for driving lesson but I can't yet, not until I feel OK. Being in charge of a ton of metal in vehicle form is not a sensible act when one is not in full control, or mentally "on it". Since the 8th January this year, I have not had a properly good day. I reiterate what I've said before: I'm not looking for sympathy or pity with this blog. I never want it, it does no good.

But the fact remains that because of my own body seemingly fighting itself, I'm so tired and I hurt a lot of the time. I don't sleep well. I don't eat well (lately). And please know that I adore food. I love food. Losing weight is not something I try to do. Ever. Today my appetite has not been sensed in any great way. I want food! And yet, I don't.


I had an appointment at hospital yesterday for an ultrasound scan. If you've never had one, I don't know how to prepare you for the unforgivable advice you'll likely be given: drink about 2 pints of water and don't pass any urine until after your scan.

It's simple advice, easy to follow, admittedly. (My appointment was at 2pm but I wasn't seen until 2:15pm, which, to me, is not acceptable. It's a fairly widely known fact that holding it in, is not good for you. I know they're busy and the like but with something like that where you have an almost impossible urge and real pain because you need to GO, NOW, I think the appointment should be at the time stated and made by them. I kept my side of the deal. I think they should've kept theirs. If you've followed their advice, you'll be needing to go at least 30 minutes before your intended appointment time. The fact that that appointment was 3 months late and the wrong information "in the system" is pretty rubbish, as well. It was meant to be made 3 months ago to check the Mirena was in the right place; I had to go to a different hospital because the original appointment took so long. Not even I expected to wait this long. Anyway...) According to the trainee sonographer and her superior, all seems fine with my womb and ovaries, or at least as fine as they can be, considering. The cysts have reduced in size: no longer a whopping 5 x 4 x 3cms.

Of course, I still have pains in the ovary area, on my right. I still experience pelvic pain between periods, i.e. now. I still need to take some kind of pain relief for this unexplained pain. Once again, everything seems bleak, so difficult to improve this. I feel it's so hard to change because I know that in a few weeks, I'll be back to PeriodLand: being cared for by my Mum (who can do without all this but, because she is amazing, helps me, still.) because I can not walk or talk or look after myself properly. Because of a period. I'll be in bed or on the sofa for a few days, not dressed, not coherent, not able to get by without taking 4 different kinds of tablets throughout the 3 or 4 worst days.


Again, Twitter and facebook have been my sources of social interaction, continually. The people I "know" through it have been my constant companions. I've been talking to people I still have not met, but to whom I still very much enjoy talking. They've kept my mind off feeling unwell with talk of newly hatched robins, soon-to-be-released books, tours, travel and freelance journalism work. They've kept my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't go, the negative and fields of self-pity. They've kept me laughing and made me speechless - literally - in one instance. They've kept me thinking, asking, playing Bejeweled Blitz.
I see things and people I want but can't have (and to whom I can't get the words out), places I want to visit but can't get to. I want to leave my home and go, somewhere, to stay on someone's sofa, in a spare room, in a tent in a field in Yorkshire, anywhere, to try to forget what has happened and what is happening to me and my family this year. But I know wherever I go, all the pain and trouble will still be within me and there is nothing, it seems, that I can do to stop it. And right now, as I type... I don't know what to do.