Tiger, sat in my lap

The No Show on the Big Return

Monday morning. Heart palpitations, rising sense of fear. Should go back, should go back. Can't.

Went back to doctor. Got signed off again. I feel guilt, but keep trying to remind myself I need time to heal my broken brain.

Lunch With Fifi and the DC22 Animal

I can understand why every single person I know advised against getting signed off work by the sympathetic doctor for a week. I am the laziest person I know, and lo and behold, the week has flown by in a daze of somnambulism - OK, I haven't exactly slept walked, but fuck, I may as well have. I've started to feel like my father, stumbling from one doorway to the next, trying to turn the corners but not quite managing it.

Friday - I spent a wonderful morning in bed reading everyone's blogs on the iPhone. Tiger (my darling cat) curled by my side, snoring occasionally. Afraid to say, but as soon as I hear her start to snore I cuddle up close and then inevitably wake her. She has a very deep purr anyway, so you can imagine the racket when she starts to snore. She is the love of my life, I would beat off rampaging youth to protect her, and bearing in mind I live in Deptford (American Vogue* describes Deptford as the 'wild west' of London, even though Deptford is in the south east of the city) the chances of me having to protect Tiger from rampaging yobs, probably with fireworks, is relatively high. She's lush though! Only downside is that she is white and I wear only black or grey. I have a rather expensive habit in roller brushes.

(I've decided that I'm not going to call people by capital letters in my blog anymore, they'll be known by pseudonyms or nicknames. So for all that have read what went before, R is now Bobbin - in-joke, don't ask.)

Whilst dozing in bed, I got a text from Fifi. She's 'working from home'. Now being a public sector employee I've never got this working from home malarkey. Surely you're either at work or not? Working from home, to me, means you're available but what you're actually doing is the housework, putting washing on the line, or indeed, going for a pub lunch with your depressed, mid-life crisis happening friend. So bring on the lunch with a depressed, mid life crisis friend....

Fifi, is a dear dear friend. The best. Totally with the programme as far as Bobbin and I are concerned. She originally lodged with Bobbin at University in London, they had a falling out - surprise surprise - but after a 10 year abstinence they re-acquainted, and wasn't I the lucky one, instant BFF.

If I was straight....

So we meet for lunch at The Talbot, an OK foodie pub in one of the more middle class areas of Lewisham (near to Deptford but really really wild west). We both decided on the Chicory, Walnut, Apple and Stilton Salad. It was delicious. Especially with the glass of Viognier that Fifi recommended - she's a wine connoisseur. I'm a 'glass of house' sort of guy, but when you're with a wine snob you have to up your game a bit. We had a chat. Exhibit A) the state of my relationship with Bobbin and what the fuck is going on in my life. Well there's an opening. Back after a cigarette and a think...

Back... I'm not really sure. Really not sure. I love the guy dearly. But am I in love? I haven't the words to describe how deep my love for Bobbin goes. But I'm not sure I trust him. I know for a fact that he in no way trusts me. I'm bang to rights, got previous, done the dirty again, and probably will do again and again. So what sort of love is that?

I live with him, but I just cannot let my guard down. I feel unable to expose myself emotionally to him. Every wayward evening out is not discussed, nothing mentioned - apart from a cursory "what time did you get in?" "Oh, about 5.30". I feel unable to tell him my darkest thoughts and fears. He doesn't ask either.

I'm here reviewing this post listening to 'She Wants Revenge' and well, Bobbin would just think - "go to bed, wanker".

I have a gothic tendency, if I wasn't 44 and gay, I'd probably be painting my face white and wearing 8 inch platforms with metal bits on the front. I don't feel as if I can reveal who I am really am to him, thinking back I'm not really sure if I ever did. Perhaps I just stepped into his slipstream 21 years ago. How does one begin to explain your inner most thoughts to someone? I cut myself off. I built the wall and then was surprised when I couldn't hear him anymore, the wall was just too thick. Really thick. With an insulating layer of doubt. Pink Floyd lyric coming up...

"Is there anybody out there?"

I haven't a clue where the blame should lie, if anywhere. Fuck it, most of the time I've been too drunk to give a toss.

The DC22 Animal?

Yep. I vacuumed a bit.

* Italian Vogue thinks Deptford is the place to buy, buy, buy. And it has to be said after living here for 14 years I would.

A Bit of Springcleaning, Emphasis on Bit

Finely managed to summon the energy, although not necessarily the enthusiasm, to start a bit of cleaning, only a bit though. Have changed and washed my bedding and weather appears mild enough over next day or two to even try drying it outside on the washing line. The kitchen got a thorough wipe down too. Also got round to replying to some emails and texts which I just haven't had the motivation to respond to. Perhaps the Prozac is starting to kick in. Not feeling so negative and "what's the fucking point" today.

Tomorrow I'll reacquaint myself with the vacuum cleaner. Tiger is shedding fur badly. White cat fur and black clothes - not a good mix. Love her though.

A Family Gathering

Spent last few days out of town, staying with my sister for a couple of nights and then with my parents for the final night. I have two sisters and I get along with them both. The sister I stayed with I get along with really well. We like going off the radar together, she visits me in London and we haul ourselves round the gay clubs until well after the sun has risen. We've also spent 2 wayward weekends at music festivals, Glastonbury in 2008 and Bestival last year. We enjoy gigs together as well, 3 or 4 times a year where possible. She has a family so doesn't do all these things as often as I do, but when she does get away she really let's her hair down. My other sister is really great too but slightly more sensible. Sunday we all got together at the wild sisters house near Maidstone, Kent. It was great to catch up with them both and my two brother-in-laws.

I 'transferred' to my parents on the last night as I needed to catch up with them away from the noise of the family gathering. They both seem quite supportive of me during this current crisis I'm going through.

My father suffers from Parkinsons Disease. He was diagnosed about 4 years ago but over the last year his 'shuffle' walk has worsened, despite the medication. He has trouble turning corners. It's almost like when a cartoon character runs off a cliff, their legs keep stepping but they go nowhere. He's very determined however. He spent this morning before I left chopping up branches in the garden. I offered to help but he wasn't having none of it. Way to go Dad!

GUM And The Sound Of One Hand Clapping

For one reason or another I have kicked against and stomped on my relationship with R. I have felt the need to drown my sorrows in drink and seek company in the comfort of strangers. As far as R is concerned this is the main factor in the deterioration of our relationship, whilst I see a deeper more disquieting dissatisfaction with how we connect as two individuals.

So after a number of drunken fumbles with a couple of strangers I thought it best to have a sexual health check up. So here I am sitting in the reception area of a Central London GUM Clinic. Just got out of initial consultation with the doctor and I've been advised that what went on was low risk. I'm not really into anal as, frankly, it's a bit of a pain in the arse.

This clinic is well amusing. It's slap bang in the centre of Soho - "Londons Gay Ghetto" - so 99% of the clients are men. And 99% of them are so hot. Shame we're all on this particular ship of fools.

Been back in for full set of checks. It appears I have a NSU (non specific urethritis). I've got to wait for other test results. Thankfully only thing required at present is a single strong dose of antibiotics.

No guilt about R either as nothing gone on since this particular episode of jumping off the rails began. I may not be the most faithful of boyfriends but I'm not a total bastard.

Procrastination and Prozac

Well, things haven't really moved on a great deal on the home front. Neither R, nor I, have come to any firm decision as to whether I should move out of the house or not. I've been looking on line at apartments to rent and to be honest the cost of even a small studio apartment freaks me out. I'm so used to living rent and mortgage free that the thought of having to use half my salary on rent is, frankly, shit scary. By the time I factor in bills and food, there won't be a lot left to spend on good times. So I'm trying to get my head around a life where my wants, rather than my needs, are severely curtailed. I have thought of renting in a house share as it'd be cheaper, but to be honest I think that'll just be undignified for a man in his 40's. I'm such a misanthrope anyway, that I don't think I'd be able to put up with other peoples shit. I could just about share a bathroom but having to share a kitchen would be beyond the pale.

My minds in overdrive, so one thing led to another, and I found my self sitting on a bench at Cannon Street Station phoning my boss to say 'I think I may be having a breakdown.' Thankfully, as a public sector employer, the organisation I work for is very forward thinking about mental health problems. Never one to not face life full on, screaming blue murder at it as I rush dauntlessly forward with broken bottle in one hand ready to slash and hack at it's pretty face, I arranged to see my doctor. I normally hate this as I don't think he's very good, but luck was on my side and I got booked to see a different doctor. She was very sympathetic and to cut a long story short, I've been put on Prozac, signed off work for a week and am being referred for counselling. Sounds perverse but I think this is a good thing.

Late Night Lewisham

Back late from a My Chemical Romance gig. Some homeless bloke at garage wanted £3.50. Said no but I'd buy him a sandwich. Got into Tesco and he asked for two. WTF! I bought them. Better than giving him money for smack. The worst thing about the whole episode is that it highlighted what a fucking middle class snob I am. He's homeless on the street, probably with drink/drug issues and all I could think was 'god how typical, he's picked sandwiches with white bread not wholemeal'. Sometimes I really really hate people 8-(

The Beginning Of The End

Well, it starts here I suppose. 21 Years with R and we've decided - mutually I suppose - to call it a day. Lets face it we've been flogging this particular dead horse for at least two years, possibly longer, hard to remember through the fog of drink. Self medicated of course, nothing like an alcoholic. Feel relief more than anything, and a not so urgent desire to find a niche for myself.

More to come.....

I hope.