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Showing posts from September, 2013

The cold creeps in

I have a problem: I'm becoming cold. I don't mean emotionally frigid (though my ex-boyfriend might disagree) I literally mean physically chilled. In bed. I should probably explain.

Ah, summer. Remember that? It happened (I think) over eighteen days some time this year and snuck in between the chilly spring and bleak autumn that is now upon us. It was warm once I believe, but now it is freezing and it seems twas ever thus; it is freezing in my flat, it is even freezing in my cosy little bedroom-cum-medical depot, and dialysis is like roses and old people: it doesn't do well in the cold.

I'm a snuggler, you see - not with men, let's not be ridiculous - but I like to burrow down under my duvet like a hedgehog when the winter months encroach. At least I did, until Dermot arrived. When I started nocturnal dialysis, the weather was warm and lying prone on one's bed was a prerequisite for a good night's kip; now you have to get yo' wriggle on to avoid waking …

It's not you...so is it me?

In honour of the 50th anniversary of Dr. King's seminal speech, I'd like to tell you about a dream I had last night, although mine was fuelled less by the injustice of racial discrimination than the vodka and Diet Coke which constitutes one of my major food groups these days.

I was in my old family house in Kent. Standing in the kitchen, I realised I had two appointments to get to, half an hour apart. The first was to visit a child, a psychic amalgamation of last years' clients and some kids I used to teach; the second was some sort of personal therapy session that was going to be very insightful, and something I urgently wanted to attend. If I was swift, I could make both. Unfortunately my plan was scuppered by the fleeting nature of subconscious time: when I looked at the clock I realised I was now apparently ten minutes into the child's appointment. I could still make the latter half, but it would mean missing my personal thearpy; to sack it off entirely would mean…