To fill in (I must
stop these puerile innuendoes – and at 52, it’s going to be hard (did you see
what I did there?)) those of you remember me more than half my lifetime ago may
recall that I collected different teas.
Collecting lots of the same one would just be weird. Not tisanes, I hasten to add. Tisanes – fruit teas with no tea in them -
are kind of okay (and in some circumstances, positively habit-forming – ginger “tea”
- lovely), but they are the country wine to the Château Lafite of actual,
proper teas – entertaining, but ultimately irrelevant. I possessed such arcane paraphernalia as a
strainer (back to the oo-ers), a cosy and (hushed expectancy) – a teapot. I took the pot to the kettle, added one for
the pot and I timed the brewing process for five minutes before “being mother” –
and by the end of that lot it was emotionally (not physically I am most
grateful to add) like giving birth. That’s
why the British say “Shall I be mother” when they serve tea. That, and the transvestism. They love
it.
So, here I am, now
sipping my ruined tea and enjoying it immensely, I might add. I also have to make the toast in a
combination microwave, oven and grill, as our old toaster decided it wasn’t
warm enough and set light to the bread.
It might have been a protest for all I know, as I was shamefully unaware
of its politics and/or grievances. I’d
be a tyrannical employer, me. It’s quite
good way to make toast in a lot of ways but it takes 10 minutes. “Go out and get another” I hear you massed(!)
readers shout “they’re dirt-cheap these days!
Bloody hell, they even do them in Sainsbury’s, near the laptops and
flat-screen TVs”. Have I informed you of
how utterly, massively under organised we are?
Have I mentioned how our living quarters are living proof of chaos
theory? Of any chaos, come to that? Making some toast and a cuppa, then writing
this missive has conspired to make my head ache already. I should be running around exercising or some
such. Nipping up to the building that,
in modern Britain, replaces the cathedral for our Sabbath genuflection – the DIY
store – and purchasing job lots of Magnolia paint and some more dining-room
chairs and stuff. I won’t, however, and
(I suspect) it will come as no surprise to you.
For data about my inactivity, please let me refer you to my previous
blog. These, you will find most of the
information you will need about why I do not whizz about in the fashion of that
most proverbial of entomological entities, the blue-arsed fly.
Right. Here we are, then. Tea.
Toast (two slices smeared with low-fat olivey spread and Brussels pâté). Starting to flag already. The quacks have been very busy on my behalf,
lately, however. I have appointments
with dieticians, the gym (yes, even that’s prescribed) and a let’s-choose-something-you-want-to-improve/do-in-your-life-and-support-you
group. Now, this may surprise some of
you, but I (despite my tone) am an optimist.
I reckon that, if I keep going to stuff like this, then, one fine day,
it’s bound to have a positive effect on my life and get me running hither and
yon. I have even sought out my own counselling in the past rather than wait for the NHS, bless them, to catch
up. Bit of a non-sequitur here. I rate the NHS very highly indeed and think
that we’re incredibly lucky to have it.
I have an astonishingly limited amount of patience for the “experts” who
think they can change it for the better and absolutely none for the shameful
and disgraceful shenanigans being currently perpetrated by this mistake of a “government”
under the umbrella of change. They need
an umbrella, or cover of some kind, for their illicit and wicked co-opting of NHS budgets for their fat-walleted friends.
However, I digress (moi?). Lately
they have an approachable and multi-faceted approach to mental healthcare,
which is (in your scribe’s ultra-nano-humble opinion) to be lauded. It really is about time. It is also extremely encouraging that such
luminaries as Ruby Wax are putting in lots of planning and energy into
encouraging scrutiny of the nation’s mental health. It could just be a clever way of seeing which
way the wind is blowing and taking advantage of it, but I honestly doubt
it. We went to one of the last “Losing It” talks at the Menier Chocolate Factory (quirky place in Borough – it’s got
an art gallery attached, too. I went
into the gallery and completely alienated the lovely assistant by saying that
the paintings all looked the same. I’m a
charmer). The key speaker was Professor Mark Williams. His talk about
mindfulness in the treatment of mental illness was quite an eye-opener in a
good way, along with his opinions about young, single mothers. The charity SANE is very
involved and provide plenty of support.
It’s probably the best time to look for treatment and support of the
middle range of mental health issues in a long time, this “government” and the
Dailies Mail and Express notwithstanding.
Crumbs (toast-related
pun there). I swerved right off
breakfast there, didn’t I? I suppose
because, unless you’re on the International Space Station or [insert disliked
politician’s or media character’s name here]’s brain, nothing exists in a
vacuum. There we have it – breakfast to
depression. Let’s hope the next stop has
something more positive for us to alight to (it’s alright, Trev, you can stop
with the eye-watering metaphors – they’ve gone).
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