Black Betty/Rama Lama Ding Dong

I feel so useless, so hopeless.

This bastard illness has got a lot to answer for. I don’t think I can write, but I’m going to try – I’m desperate for relief. I’ve had the coal-coloured canine on my shoulders for weeks now and it’s making me so frustrated. I’m a prisoner in my own body.

On Friday night it was so overwhelming, I tried to fix on something, anything that I was looking forward to. There wasn’t anything. With every minute I am fighting the instinct to return to bed and space out, wasting the time and muscles of my nearly-forty-two-year-old bod. Why is this? Why me? Why can’t I just get on with things, the way that most other people seem to manage to, huh? HUH? This morning I was physically clinging to the mattress with fear. WHY? The other urge that plagues me continually is the “stuffing my face” one. Eating because it may comfort me, because it’s done that before. My appetite is bipolar – all or nothing. Even when it’s nothing, I’ll still sometimes cram stuff in in the hope it’ll make me feel better. It never does, and I never learn. I watch my belly rounding in the mirror and avoid stepping on the scales so often. The recent hot weather has had me lamenting every inch of myself. I hate me. No, I loathe me.

The last time I wrote it was of my housing crisis, the denouement of which was that the landlady put the house on the market and it sold. I was served notice a couple of weeks ago, which fortunately coincided with me finding somewhere else to live. So August will be a hive of transference: in to the new place on the 10^th; out of this lovely, wonderful home by the 15^th. It will be interesting to see how that affects this year’s birthday, two days later.

I knew I wouldn’t have been homeless, and I count that as a blessing. I had been looking at places to rent online since January. I knew that I would be able to find somewhere, even if it was a Bradley Stoke shoebox. I’d also had several offers of rooms and, right at the end of my search, two different friends’ properties became available to rent. I knew I was going to be housed. How lucky am I? Nevertheless, I trawled through hundreds of dwellings, shacks, flats, bungalows, as notified by Zoopla and Rightmove. I saw so much beige carpet and magnolia wall, I began to worry that my laptop had stopped displaying colour. Also small kitchens, non-existent gardens, close neighbours: nowhere grabbed me enough to take control and leave.

The ones that did catch my attention were slightly quirkier – cottages, converted barns, that kind of thing. Number 18 arrived into my life on a Monday afternoon, while I was in the middle of working: a Zoopla email alert onto which I clicked with the usual non-commitment. Seconds later I was twanged out of my haze by quaint red brick semi-detachedness. Hours later, I was standing in it, and again even later with my best friends. We all agreed it was a good match. Luckily, its owner thought the same of me and the deal was done, not forty-eight hours after first learning of its existence.

It is definitely cottagey, and much less ideal for me than here (at £45 pcm more too, though that was inevitable.) It’s smaller, without garage or boarded loft. No gas cooker, no large kitchen workspace, no upstairs toilet. And, to begin with, no allocated parking. The natural light coming in from the free side will be obscured by the house currently being built on what used to be its garden – 18A. Yet there was something about it. I knew as soon as I saw it that I was going to be living there, just like I had known when I saw the kitchen I am sitting in now. Funny. I will make it work.

I am proud of my behaviour throughout this awkward situation that I’m sure many others must face every day. I have been co-operative to idiot levels. Every time there was a viewing, I cleaned up. I de-cluttered and did as much as I could do make the house saleable. I did my best to put viewers at ease and not cower in a corner blubbing. Though I didn’t always achieve the latter, I did it so discreetly that I don’t think I ruined anything for the estate agents. Even now I continue to answer the phone when they call, cheerfully making time for visits from the outgoing landlady, surveyors, builders etc. And the new buyers – that was a tricky one. Having all these strangers stomping through my home over the last four months has been pretty nasty, but the lucky sods who managed to succeed where I failed – to get a mortgage and be able to own this house??? No offence to them, they seemed ever so nice, and I know they will love here as much as I have done. I tried to stay calm, but I was working myself into such a snotty mess, I thought I’d better clear off until they’d left. Never let them see you cry. Happily, the young chap from the agency who accompanied them had accompanied them, and he chatted to me gently to take my mind off my misery long enough to offer them the cakes I’d made especially for the occasion. Idiot, see?

This unsettled sensation has been with me from the very moment the For Sale sign appeared in the front garden, and now I know that there is an end to my tenancy, it’s got much worse. The enforced thinning out of possessions and subsequent move has triggered this paralysis. To explain it to someone who has never gone through this – it’s as if some invisible entity is sitting on my shoulders, pushing them down. My freakishly long monkey arms are pinned to my sides; my hands curled into fists. I press my chest in the centre to relieve the ache and to feel comforted. I’ve even taken to – oh this is so tragic – taken to hugging myself and stroking my neck, to relieve the agitation. You know like your annoying brother used to do, to make it look as if he’s having a snog, then he’d turn around and reveal it was just him? No? Only me then. That might explain a lot.

The conflict too is tremendous. I am teeming with loneliness, going through whole days without human contact. Yet it’s too much to pop next door to the neighbour (also lonely), or visit friends. I’ve even found it hard to continue with the volunteering that was so therapeutic to me. Hopefully I’ll be back to that after M-Day. When I am out, the pull of my home, and thus safety, is so strong. Rather than be out and in company, I want to stay hidden. Preferably in my bed, with Star Trek TNG on Netflix, a bowl of assorted chocolates and a computer strategy game on my laptop, the mindless playing of which is wrecking my thumbs. My dislike of myself is that gargantuan, I don’t care to inflict me on any other living soul. Don’t get me started on boyfriend stuff either. How can I expect someone to love me when I don’t even like me? Who am I going to meet if I never go out?

This time last year, the local boot fairs were gems in the turd of my life; this year I struggle to derive the same pleasure from them. Knowing that I’m supposed to be downsizing takes all the fun out of spending money I don’t have on things I don’t need. I went today, but passed most of the time worrying that I need others to be going through my crap and offering me 50p for it, not vice versa.

Why do I keep going? What is the point of me? I ask that over and over in conversations with my various stuffed toys (Bernard the Bunny downstairs, Abbraccio the overworked Bear on my duvet.) The truth is, I don’t know. I have some very dear friends, and I like being around them. They in turn do a sterling job of keeping me afloat. There’s not much in our relationship for them, yet they still answer my calls. That piece of craziness maintains my sanity. My heart bursts with love. Another thing that has pervaded my life is this mystery hobby that I have banged on about in the last couple of entries. I’ve been doing it since February 2016 and it’s having an interesting effect. As-yet-unrevealed is about to be revealed, but first you have to guess….

That’s what I said to my family before my mother’s visit last June, where she found out what I’d been up to when I took her directly to watch it. Some of their guesses were, quite frankly, unflattering. Pigeon fancier? Nope. Pole dancer? Maybe next year. Mamma actually hit the nail squarely on the bonce with one of her last guesses, though I played the game all the way until I took her to the church one Tuesday evening… and around the side, and up the tower to watch me ring the bells.

Yes, I’m a campanologist. An atheist campanologist at that, something which I am having no difficulty maintaining, especially as my respect in the beliefs of others seems to be reciprocated. At least, if anyone really minds, no-one has said. Everyone has kindly refrained from telling me I’m wrong, or making me stay to the services that sometimes accompany our branch meetings. In repayment, I’ve been squirm-free throughout any praying I’ve been accidentally caught in, and asked intelligent questions rather than laughing openly into my companions’ faces when the J chap is mentioned. To be fair, that’s rarely happened. Oh world, it’s so important that we accept each other. What a different place it would be if we could all live and let live! But I digress.

Who’d have thunk it, eh? Me, dangling off sallies every weekend (which sounds like one of their naughtier hobby suggestions, thank you family…) When I was at York doing my PGCE, (back in… oh crikey, twenty freakin’ years ago this autumn!!! And this is supposed to making me feel better?? Cue over-use of punctuation. Man!!!!!) Anyhow, York, PGCE, ages ago etc, we had to give presentations on a hobby of ours. I don’t remember what mine was about, but one of the mature students in our group – a lady called Susan – gave hers on bell ringing. Oh, how we laughed. How we howled with derision behind her back. She spoke so passionately about it, not just in the presentation. It was clearly a massive part of her life. What a weirdo, we guffawed, and bonded with our mutual dislike of her and her stupid pastime. Well I wish I could find this lady now, because I would apologise repeatedly to her face. Not just because the group never really gelled with her, and she must have found that unpleasant, but also because she was right to get excited about a hobby that makes so many small-minded idiots like I was back then react so disapprovingly.

When I say what I do, I say it proudly. I am proud! Look at all the places it’s taken me in sixteen months: I practice once a week minimum, and ring Sunday mornings for services, walking to and from the church as much as possible. I’ve rung at several weddings, despite my cynicism for such events, and I get a small payment each time. I’ve rung at most of the local churches; at Tewkesbury Abbey, where they have twelve bells and six churches in Wales; I rang on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, which helped me feel less lonely; I rang in 2017 at St Mary’s, Thornbury – the best start to a year ever. I’ve rung two Quarter Peals, which is forty-five minutes non-stop, no mistakes allowed, and I want to do more. Even though I’ve been terrified, I’ve done all this. Why? Because…

Firstly, it’s bloody difficult. Never mind mastering the technique and the fact that you are controlling a lump of metal that might be several times your body weight, swinging it around above your head. Once you’ve grasped it, literally, you’re into learning “methods”. (Like a “tune”, but not really ‘cos it’s more about sequence than music.) That’s where you have to concentrate and remember and really control. You have to learn a whole new jargon as well. Look to, treble’s going, she’s gone, go plain bob doubles, bob, bob, single, this is all, rounds, stand – that’s a conversation, that is! With it comes phrases that turn me into Finbarr Saunders: “I couldn’t pull it off, it was too stiff.” Fnarr fnarr. “Don’t stop, I’m not quite up yet.” Arrrrooga! “Long, slow strokes… let it go all the way up,” etc, shameful etc. By employing a touch of self-discipline, I’m able to be present and respectful and dignified at all times, which for me is pretty darned amazing.

Secondly, it’s physically demanding. This must be the first summer in years where I’ve not given two hoots about whether or not my arms are covered when I go out, even though I’m a good stone heavier than I’d like. All that donging behind (yip! Yip!) really makes a girl tone up.

Thirdly, it’s mentally stimulating. All the lovely, lovely maths and patterns, and learning. Guffaw if you will, but it’s probably this part that keeps me coming back for more each week, and thus strengthening my body and smoothing out my ruffled mind.

Lastly, and by no means leastly, I’ve met a really interesting bunch of people and have a connection with many others countrywide. As a ringer, you can go into any tower and ask to join in! I’m already into double figures tower-wise. While the groupings might be different, the dopamine reward for teamwork is the same. So everything about this pastime contributes to my continued existence, maybe even making me well again.

So now you know. And you also know how much it means to me to be accepted by these wonderful, interesting people, and to be educated, encouraged and even commended by them too.

In terms of productivity, this evening’s not been what it might have. In between rounds of Lines ’95 and Captain Picard, and a bacon and mushroom sarnie with Daddies’ Sauce – something I can manage to get on the outside of, no matter how rubbish I feel - I’ve put together the bilge that you are now scraping from your eyeballs. I value your sacrifice, though I cannot be held responsible for alcohol subsequently consumed. This lonely girl, bashing away at a keyboard (while resting her head on a fed-up ted) has been able to reach out to the world for a few hours. Thank you for that.

Will this Boot Fair Bitch get a Boot Fair pitch? When can repeating the phrase “it’s going to be all right” actually start to hit home? Plot a course for the next entry at warp factor four to find out. Engage.