A Winter's Tale

Dear readers, it's been a while. This is no fanfare to welcome you back, sadly.

So much has happened. My diary files have no fewer than three half-hearted attempts to complete the blog entry about internet dating (Find My Love, published in Spring 2018), never posted as I couldn’t finish them. No matter how hard I tried, I came across as shallow in every single one. I loathed the way that dating websites force you to judge other human beings. I went on zero dates; hooked up with nobody, and unsubscribed to the package with infinitely more glee than I’d signed up to it. 

I wish I had shared with you the delightful summer that followed. How I found wonder in every blossom and bloom, and how the sunlight and energy helped me to successfully part ways with the antidepressants that had fogged my bloodstream for four years. I remain entirely drug-free, and it’s my goal to keep that going, despite this current setback. Hmmm, was that more of a spoiler than the title? Read on… 

You also deserve to know that, after nearly six years of singularity, I have become one half of a couple. The tale leading up to that occurrence is a sweet one, and continues to be so. I’m sorry I never told it to you. It’s not all plain sailing, of course - after so long on my own, I’m having difficulty adjusting. Also, excepting the short-lived Lizzie Kicks Ass collection, during the first part of my chemotherapy (https://lizziekicksass.blogspot.com/) I’ve not really blogged with a partner to consider before. It almost feels like I’m being unfaithful! 

So it’s unsurprising that I went quiet. I've not felt the need for words, nor have I had the time. Until now. 

They say that the third Monday of the new year is the most depressing it can get. “Blue Monday” they call it, though that makes me think of the New Order track, which is completely the opposite. You should know by now that I loathe going with the herd, so I had my breakdown a whole two days before everybody else’s. 

Being something of an old hand, I should have seen it coming. I ignored the warning signs. I’d been doing so well – my first winter without a Sertraline comfort blanket for four years! You might think that having a man in my life would help but, wonderful though he is, he brings with him a whole lot of other concerns that sometimes balance out the benefits. Also, I’m not sure that the presence of a partner can make much difference. I see more clearly than ever how depression is an illness, caused by a lack of chemicals in the brain, and can come in bursts like any other condition. Having a boyfriend wouldn’t stop an asthma attack or a migraine? Some boyfriends may even bring them on…

This boyfriend was quite seriously ill himself, quite soon into our relationship, making things move a lot faster than they might have done. After helping set up and take down the stage for a music festival, I noticed his shallow, noisy breathing and made him go to his GP. She immediately sent him to Ambulatory A&E (aka “The Walking Wounded”) where he was diagnosed with double pneumonia! If this wasn’t enough to worry about, something else cropped up in tests, that led to other tests. A doctor’s clumsy delivery of his status and a sudden admission to hospital two days later made me think it was Game Over for the poor chap. (I was once told I had cancer. It had been easier to deal with than this! We still refer to the day as “Black Thursday”…) I was as strong and optimistic as I could be because it was what he needed. Concealing my true feelings at that point was one of the greatest performances of my life. Luckily, the admission was lung-based, and it only took a night of IV antibiotics and oxygen to get his sats levels back to where they should have been. After which, he came home with me and stayed there to recover. I managed to look after the pair of us and keep up with my work, while fighting off a bout of sinusitis, probably picked up from all the hospital trips at the tail end of a cold. When he went back to his house, on a strong road to recovery, I weakened. It took a few days of hiding away and isolation to get me back to regular Lizzie strength. Warning Sign One?

I’m not a fan of the festive season, and last year’s was a big struggle. It’s been incredible to have the bitter sting of loneliness removed from my selection box of feelings, don’t get me wrong. However, now I remember that I’ve never been so good at being an “other half”. It was a lot easier when it was just me coping with my nonsense. Now someone else is involved, I find myself even more painfully aware of my inadequacies as a person. To protect the world from them, I used to hide away. It’s no longer that simple. Also, I have lost the identity it took me years to build up and I’m floundering about once more. Business-wise, it wasn’t good. I despise how commercial Christmas has become, and that opinion grated painfully with awareness that that time of year is an ideal opportunity to make some money with my wares. I spent a heavy week (twelve-hour plus days, no weekend) hand-rolling truffles for a blustery Food Fair and ended up taking most of them back home. I had got into such an emotional state before, during and after, I vowed not to do such an event again. I had been so affected, I was unable to post the remaining chocolates for sale online, and still have them filling my fridge. Warning Sign Two?

Luckily, stress gave way to peace for the New Year. We had a few days of Just Being, which were snatched away all too quickly by the evil strains of Work. I was having trouble getting back into the weekly rhythm of deadlines. The only cake order I had lined up did not help - a tractor, for a fellow ringer and friend. 

Ploughing into the mud

Once more, I got myself into such a lather that it surprised me. Warning Sign Three? I was so upset and so tired, I made a little vid for my future self. It’s pretty obvious, watching that, that something isn’t right. The sore throat which arrived that evening brought its mates, and soon there was a party going on in my respiratory system that I had not sent invitations for. 

I know I’m not alone. Lurgy seems to be rife at the moment. Ringing towers across the ‘shire are a mixture of coughs, sneezes, dings and dongs: no-one is safe. Early on, I thought it might be ‘flu. Having had both the vaccine and the virus for a couple of years, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I ached therefore I was! Most likely it was my poor, cancer-scarred lymphatic system, over-reacting like the rest of me is wont to do. I had to double up on painkiller, alternating Ibuprofen with paracetamol every couple of hours just to keep functioning. I was out of action for a clear week, bed-ridden and unexercised. During which I was fighting back urges to really cry, the like of which I haven’t felt for some time. 

It all came to a head last Saturday. I was preparing for an evening with my best mates – pizza, beer and games. What could be more fun? J (for ‘tis his initial, coincidentally (see Piano Man, September 2016)), was coming over first and I had to tidy the post-cake, post-cold debris of my house as it wasn’t very welcoming. It’s funny how time stands still when one is unwell. Only I wasn’t doing it – I was panicking instead, which is neither useful nor rational. I decided a shower would be more productive. I set it going and began to get ready… and crumpled. For no discernible reason. A panic attack isn’t any more fun under running water. I cried so hard, I could barely breathe and had to open the window. I knew this despair of old. As I leant against the tiles with the water cascading down, gasping lungfuls of cold January air, I realised that it was back for a visit and I hadn't prepared the guest room.  

Interestingly, I wasn’t frightened this time. It is a very familiar sensation. I’ve described it before – the grey shroud, heavy about my shoulders; trying to suffocate me, brain-first. I may not have felt it for a while... no, not “felt”. "Indulged" maybe? Sometimes it seems like a choice. In that steam-filled bathroom, I let it happen. I had nothing more to fight it with. It could have me. However, the new lack of fear must be because I KNOW it’s only temporary. I am sure, with all of my heart, that it goes away and that it doesn’t necessarily take tablets to make it do so. I understand a lot more about the way my body works than I ever did. Unfortunately, this was J’s first encounter with Black Betty, and he didn’t have any warnings. When he arrived, I was curled up on the sofa, trying to hold it together. He put his arms around me, and I carefully explained, holding back the hysterics for another time. My nonsense, as I said, is best reserved for its creator. All evening I wore the cloak of extreme sadness that this illness brings. It’s all there, just as it used to be – the misery, the tears, the urge to run away from everything. Neither he nor my friends can make it go away, try as they might. It’s got to come from me. It will do, of course. I just need time. 

Now I read all that back, I’m really not surprised. All those little episodes, without anything to shield my bonce? I’m amazed I got as far as I did! On Sunday, I rang the bells at three towers. It wasn’t easy, but I didn’t give up. This hobby delights me. All the lovely people and the little victories keep me going. I hope more than anything that I can keep it going as I struggle through these dark days. I slept heavily at lunchtime. Suddenly exercising after such inanimacy is not easy either. Yet these are going to be key to my recovery – company (even if I have nothing to say to anyone and would wish myself alone), fresh air, exercise. And daylight, the lack of which I feel may be responsible for the above. 

As if my relapse wasn’t enough, the day-to-day delights of the month must continue. Yesterday’s threw up this cautionary tale: 

I was merrily doing my receipts and tax return. I’m a lot further along than I usually am at this time of year. It’s been tricky negotiating the bits around 2017’s house move, where suppliers have changed etc. I braced myself for the complications of the electricity and gas. When I moved, the landlady paid for these as they were using them to build the house next door. She stopped doing this on Nov 24th 2017, but for some reason I didn’t sort it out until May 2018. When I did, I was saddled with a whopper of a catch-up bill that I couldn’t pay in one go. Surely that should have aroused some suspicion? I must have thought that, as it was a different supplier and a new house, it was going to be a different rate anyway. I wish I’d thought harder. I set up an instalment plan to go alongside the new Direct Debit and that was that. For tax purposes, this is already a problem – it shows I haven’t paid for fuel for the second half of the tax year, which will affect my home/office allowance. I have paid retrospectively, I thought. Let’s see how much. I put all the payments into my special spreadsheet and added them up. It came to £1379.50. Take away what I’ve been paying back (8 lots of £29.50) and that means that since May 2018 – nine months ago - I’ve spent a whopping £1143.50! My plan back at my previous residence was £56 per year, which means I’m paying more than twice as much for fuel. 

The first course anyone would take on discovering such an anomaly is to blame someone else. Based on my run-in with Npower last autumn re Smart Meter, I decided that was where to point the finger. I called them, my rage mounting to levels that the irritating “on hold” music couldn’t touch. The cheerful Geordie lass who answered after only three songs took me through my payments. I’d forgotten about the catch-up thing, which it would appear I’ve only paid a third of. But the other totals – surely a mistake. 

No mistake, madam. You’re spending a lot on your fuel.

It was at this point that the last few molecules of Serotonin could hold on no longer, and left me exposed to my raw brain. I burst into tears.

“There’ll be a review in May and you can change your tariff then, but you’re already on the best one for you,” she tried to reassure me. 

“May?” I squeaked, as I leant over to the cupboard and turned the heating off. I was already freezing cold.

“Your usage is up quite a bit since last year.”

I suppose it is – I’ve been a bit more generous with the heating, putting it on for times during the day as well as first and last thing. I had calculated that I get upset when I’m cold, and can’t work efficiently, so it made sense. 

“What if I change suppliers?” I said, belligerently, still desperate to prove it wasn’t my fault. 

Of course I can do that, after clearing my debt with Npower – which I obviously would do. 

“The house’s energy consumption is much higher than it was this time last year. I can put you through to an Energy Efficiency consultant…” 

Ha! Ridiculous! Why would I need to talk to her? I’m not a person who leaves things on standby. I boil exactly the right amount of water for my tea. I purchase A+++++++ appliances. And I’m not an idiot. Or so I thought…

With the tears subsiding, I was remorseful for crying down the phone to a helpless stranger and apologised. I still couldn’t understand the difference in price though, so I thought it might be sensible to chat with the consultant after all. 

“Just to make sure I’m not doing anything stupid.”

Another cheerful Geordie voice – Sharon – greeted me and asked how she could help. After a brief explanation, she barraged me with questions and facts, and the final scales fell from my eyes and on to the chilly floor.

“How old is the property?”

“I know this exactly because there’s a plaque on the wall,” I declared, proud of my quirky little abode: “1897”

“Are the walls solid stone or brick,”

“Er, brick. With plaster.” I could see where this was going. I don’t have any wall insulation, do I? 

“You’re losing 35% of your heat to the walls.”

This is where I began to realise quite how thick I’ve been. Thicker than the walls that I’ve been paying to heat up. It’s an old house – of course it’s going to be cold! There are eight rooms in total, seven of which have a radiator. Of those, I only keep four switched on, supposedly to save money. (It would be three, but the one in the study room doesn’t switch off at all – why have I never mentioned this?)

The next epiphany knocked me sideways. She asked about thermostats. There aren’t any. Not on the boiler, not on the walls, not on the hot water tank. I have scalded myself repeatedly on the hot water from the taps, and once or twice on the radiators. I found some sort of control near the pilot light thing (the boiler) numbered 1-6. It wasn’t on its highest anyway, but I turned it down. She gave me a long explanation of how energy is used in heating water, and it dawned on me that there is no separate on/off switch for the water heating! I can switch the radiators off and just have the water, but I can’t do it the other way around. I must have discovered this soon after I moved in, but been so upset at the time, and of a “just keep going” mindset, that I had forgotten. So every time I’ve had the heating on, I’ve had the water on too. Instead of two hours a day, it’s been on for TEN PLUS. Every day. Why I never changed this in the summer is a mystery to me. I expect it’s because I’ve not got much experience here. I’ve always feared running out of hot water in the shower. Nobody’s ever taught me exactly how long the water needs to be on so that one person can have a shower, and maybe do some washing up. Until this moment. 

Like everyone else, I learned about energy efficiency at school - and I ignored it. Then I used to teach it, to similarly bored kids. It was always something saved for cover lessons as it was so dull, and nobody – staff and pupils alike – ever takes the content of cover lessons seriously. If only I could have known that two decades later, I’d be receiving the same lesson via a phonecall, having paid for my ignorance with the best part of a grand. 

I began pacing around the house as she talked, searching frantically for thermostats and seeing my quaint abode with new, money-lacking eyes. When we said a heartfelt “Goodbye, take care,” nearly an hour later, I was distraught. I’ve wasted money – a large amount of it – and will continue to do so until I put some measures in place; not just me, I’m going to have to involve my landlady in this, and I never want to bother her as I may not be able to field a rent increase. She, understandably, might not want to fork out for a new boiler for this old boiler. Plus, I’m going to have to take action – as if I haven’t got enough to do – and spend money myself. I don’t expect a landlord is under obligation to paint interior walls with a special heat insulating paint, or put something shiny behind the radiators to reflect the heat back into the room. Certainly, it’s my duty to put a rug on the floorboards in the lounge, and block up the unused fireplace. 

Worst of all was the overwhelming sensation of how stupid I have been. Why is it only now, several hundred pounds down, that I come to realise? I couldn’t take it. The way I cried for a solid half hour afterwards left me in no doubt: I’ve allowed depression to take me in his bony grip once more. And right now, I’m way too cold to want to do anything about it. 

So that’s where I am. I feel as if there is nowhere soft for my mind to rest. The blackness comes in waves, sometimes floods. I must be very careful not to let it get too bad. I think I have the power to do that. 

Do I though? Will this humourless prose be replaced by something a little more typical next time? With pictures? How many minutes before midnight on Jan 31st will Lizzie submit her tax return? All this and less in the next exciting instalment...

I Need a Miracle

Some days you are comfortably above the water level, others you are gasping for air. Today’s a bit of a gasper.

No real reason – the situation hasn’t changed other than I know a few more facts, coming up after this paragraph. I had a lovely evening last night. Some kind friends invited me over for a dinner party. The food was delish, the company likewise. Though there were seven other people present, I did more than an eighth of the talking. A LOT more than an eighth, and this has been bugging me a bit. I’m a chatty girl most of the time, probably because I spend so long on my own. I don’t want to scare people off with that: “Ooo don't invite Lizzie – she doesn’t shut up!” I did return home feeling smiley and happy and positive, which was a lovely gift. It’s worn off pretty quickly this morning, as I look about the house thinking “my days here are numbered.” Maybe that’s it? I feel a wraith of depressive fog circling my head, slowing me down and making it difficult to work. I must fight it.

The financial adviser from the estate agency that are dealing with it all called me earlier in the week, and very kindly answered a lot of my questions. I asked him to pull no punches, just land it all on me honestly, so he did. Here’s the bones of it: (specific figures available on request)

1) The house is valued at X.

2) The maximum amount I might be able to borrow is about Y. I say “might” as not only does me being self-employed make lenders go “hmmmmmm……?” but I’m weirdly self-employed – not a plumber or a hairdresser… a freelance puzzle compiler??? Try finding that on any automated career lists. I’m also a baker/confectioner, a singer and a public speaker – so my income stream is from various things rather than just one, which (to the folks with the funding) is even less desirable. I need to demonstrate stability.

3) Even if I could get that, they’d do an affordability assessment on me too, and I’d probably fail that. The fact that I’ve paid rent steadily for 2.5 years means nothing. Lenders give no credit for past achievements!

4) Assuming I could convince someone to let me have a mortgage based on my income, and plus my deposit (Z), I could afford less than half of this house.

5) So if I wanted to buy it I would need to find X-(Y+Z) more spondoolicks.

6) I could ask e.g. ten people I know to “gift” me X-(Y+Z)/10. This is ultra-complicated. Their investment would have to be a “gift” as lenders would shy away if they knew they were sharing house ownership with ten other parties. However, it would be my intention to pay the investors back what they put in plus their share of how much the house had increased in value when I was ready to move on/repay. Messy. Tricky. Relies on trust. Not a good idea.

7) The Government’s “Help to Buy” scheme is apparently linked to certain houses only. They don’t give you money, they merely underwrite a portion of your mortgage i.e. vouch for you. I could borrow a bit more, should I be eligible and should I deem to live in one of these certain houses (which are mostly newbuilds). The scheme ends this year, so if it was my direction I’d better get my skates on.

8) I could find a guarantor. This is basically someone who applies for the mortgage in their name for me. Their income and age would be taken into account, so it would need to be someone with a good couple of decades of working life left, and earning around three times more than me. Apparently the age factor is very important. It could be more than one person, but everyone who signed up would have to have their credit checked and go through all the hassle of obtaining a mortgage. After that, it would be me that made the repayments. After winning the lottery, marrying a sugar daddy just for his cash, selling my body, this is actually the most sensible and likely thing to do. And it looks like my only hope.

I did think about crowdfunding to make up the deficiency. With that, I’d have to pledge a reward in return for the donations. I did me a little menu of what I might offer:

•          In return for a £10 donation, you would receive a decorated “Thank You” biscuit, handmade be moi.
•          For £50, a handmade batch of something (choc brownie, Malteser cake, millionaire’s shortbread – oh, the irony), sent to anywhere in the UK.
•          £100 would get you a basic party cake, sent to your door.
•          For £200, I’d record and upload a vid of me singing a song of your choice, dedicated to you.
•          £500 and a custom-compiled crossword all about you would be yours.
•          If you could stretch to £1000, I could write you a script for a pantomime, tailored to your specific pantomime requirements.

Yes. It made me laugh too.

And of course, it wouldn’t work. Who’d give money to some git to buy a house when there are tonnes more worthy causes? Who’d pay over-inflated prices for stuff they could get more cheaply elsewhere? Even if they did, how would I honour all these pledges? I could find myself having to write fifty pantomime scripts, and it still wouldn’t be enough money. It’s a shame they don’t allow you to offer sexual favours – I might have stood a chance there, killing several birds with one ill-advised illicit stone. In conclusion, it’s a “no” to crowdfunding.

Age-wise I’ve got about twenty-five working years ahead of me. (I know it’ll be a lot more than this, but that’s what the banks see.) I feel as if this is make or break time for me: I need to buy something now-ish or I will miss the boat and be a tenant forever. I asked if it was possible to sell the house to an investor with me in it, continuing to pay my monthly dues. Yes, it is, though it is down to the vendor’s discretion, and also the first thing my new landlord would do, almost definitely, is to raise the rent.

ARGH! It’s all so annoying.

So that’s the summary of all I have done so far to honour Part C of my plan (see previous post Turn! Turn! Turn!) In terms of Part B (selling stuff to downsize) it’s going to take a while to get the Ebay ball rolling. My priority for the next six weeks is making products to sell at Christmas markets and online.

Part A is something I have been thinking hard about. What is it I love about this home? What do I dislike? What am I looking for in a new abode/workplace? I might take you on a virtual tour when it’s not so messy. In the meantime, here’s what I need:

•          Light, airy, spacious house, not only inside, but around it. Avoiding the feeling of being boxed in.
•          Three bedrooms. Could work with two. (One to sleep in, one spare, one office. Could combine the spare and office.)
•          Shower. Bath optional, but I love having one.
•          Gas supply. For central heating and cooking.
•          Large kitchen – kitchen diner would be best. Plenty of surface space but preferably an island in the middle rather than edges. It’s nice to face the room when I’m working, not the wall. Double oven very useful.
•          Big windows, green stuff outside. (Not moss or mould…) Ideally a good view esp of the setting sun.
•          Parking
•          Ideally detached as I make a lot of noise (singing, playing, cooking) and do things at strange hours. Semi-detached OK. Don’t want to live in a terrace or a flat please.
•          In a nice, peaceful area. Not too many comings and goings, revvings of motor engines, drunk teenagers staggering past.

(NB all this is pretty much what I have now. DAMMIT.)

As if all that wasn’t a big enough ask, I want to stay in this town. Living here is fabulous. I have never felt so settled or happy in all my life. I’m establishing myself as a member of society; I’ve made new friends – people I really, really like. I know my way around and love learning more about the locality all the time. I am not going to leave Dursley/Cam. No thank you.

Just had a look online. Anything like the above to buy is equally out of my price range, leaving me with one-bedroom flats or teeny tiny terraces. I know how miserable this would make me, so it’s not really an option, not even a temporary one. (Please, not temporary anything. The prospect of having to set up phone and broadband and services, and notifying EVERYONE about me change of address and... then having to do it all over again when I have to move again?? Oh lordy lordy. Life is too short for that!) There are a couple of OK-ish ones to rent. (I think whatever happens, I’m in for a rent increase.) Nothing that has made me want to start throwing things into boxes and hiring vans.

You might want to offer your help, now I know what I need. It’s either a “gift” of that portion of money that I am lacking; or maybe you are prepared to be a guarantor for me? Or you know of someone who might be able to do either of these things, and can forward them this blog link. You can get in touch by emailing thewizzylizzie@gmail.com without feeling obliged to follow up offers. Maybe you know of somewhere I could rent? If none of the above, console yourself with the fact that you just read through this load of cobblers, which means the number of views this post has had just increased by one. Knowing that I have the support of people, even just in spirit, provides me with a great deal of strength and makes it easier to breathe.

Are you an eccentric billionaire who would give me the price of my house in return for a night of passion and Nutella macarons? If not, why not? Another question I won’t be answering in the next exciting instalment, more gripping than cling film on everything except the thing you wanted it to cling to. 

Turn! Turn! Turn!

Just returned from my first appointment with my counsellor in six months. She’s incredible. When I talk to her I see how much I have changed and how far I have come. She has played a large part in that. She’s very good at making me see through all my crappy excuses and my inner child’s whinging, to what is real and right.

The stark truth is that I am where I am today as a result of my choices. You can’t always choose what happens to you - I would have preferred not to have had cancer, for example - but life is like that. What you can choose is how you deal with it. The paths I have taken have been for one goal and one alone – I’ve only wanted to be happy. I have chosen not to be in regular employment as the few times I was, I couldn’t stand it, so I have put myself in this position of not being able to achieve a mortgage. Nevertheless, I back my choice. It is best for me. I could have worked harder in the last five years and I didn’t. The big C aside, I was in a relationship for the first twelve months of this period, the security of which shielded me from taking initiative. We had a mortgage. That’s why I started Lizzie Likes… to increase my income so I could make a greater contribution to the repayments. That relationship was another of my choices. Falling in love was what life gave me at that time. Anything that followed was down to me, and I accept responsibility. It was done in the pursuit of happiness. Making choices sometimes means having regrets too.

Anyhow, now I find myself in this irksome situation it’s up to me how I progress. (Irksome? Screw that. It’s a pain in the farking butthole.) I can continue with this gloom-fest, or I can opt for optimism. If I say that I’m going to be OK enough times, I will begin to believe it. I know this works because I’ve done it before.

-          Time and time and time again. I only want some peace. I’m FED UP of being strong.

-          Ah. Hello Inner Voice. Still there huh?

-          Always. Can we have some chocolate and a sleep now? It’s past 2pm!

-          No. I have to write and post this, then do some more work and prepare something for the pantomime publicity meeting before [as-yet-unrevealed hobby] this evening.

-          Oh Outer Voice, you’re so wise. Said no-one ever.

-          Hush now. I’m concentrating…

Yup. It’s like that all the time. Where was I? Ah yes – it’s up to me how I progress. So I am going to change my approach, albeit shakily.  

I don’t want to move out of my home. I am very sad about it and probably will be for a while, but that is fine. It’s perfectly natural to grieve for loss. I do not enjoy this feeling of not being settled, nor the fear of the unknown. Moving house is stressful enough when it’s something you actually want to do! It was pointed out that change is always a risk with renting. Funny how it never occurred to me. I’ve always left properties because I wanted to – it’s always been me that hands in notice, not the other way around. Anyway, yes I’m very frightened. To me, it’s less adventure more inconvenience. As banged on about previously, it has taken me ages to get to this positive work and home position. I do not relish the idea of putting it on hold. It is just “hold” though. If I lie back and thick of the end-point – that I will return to this position eventually – it will help.  A lot of this pain is happening because I am having to think about myself which is what I have been stealthily avoiding for a while. To enter a room of people, thinking not “what must they think of me?” but “what can I do for these folk to make their life experience better?” is where I need to re-angle my lens.

So here is what I am going to do, in addition to continuing to get out of bed each morning and remembering to breathe. And the small matter of keeping my income incoming and doing all those other things that make me glad I exist:

1)      Start looking for somewhere else to live. I figure if I start now, I’ve got a better chance of finding a place that I will be content with. Sure, it makes me blub just firing up a property website, but I will do it anyway. I might find somewhere even more incredible.

-          and you might find somewhere a lot worse…

-          Can it, IV. I choose not to listen.

2)      Start selling my things. A downsize is likely, almost inevitable. I’ll feel less stupid on moving day if I have less stuff. I question the volume of possessions, but my things make me happy. (Why do I feel I have to justify them? I think it’s the echoes of my father’s voice from all those years ago, talking to me or my mother: “What do you need that for? What are you going to do with that?” etfc) I’m not talking furniture here – I don’t own a bed, wardrobes, a sofa, a TV etc. (All things that will need to be acquired when I leave… Except a TV. I was managing fine without that.) However, I seem to have rather a lot of shelf units. It’s because of my love of certain things. Boot fairs are my hobby in summer. A trawl through on a sunny day does me no end of good. So I have a lot of clothes and jewellery and yes, I wear them. I do lots of things that require dressing up. It’s something I love to do. I also have a lot of music, instruments and books. I have a collection of Sindy dolls, clothes and furniture that I have built up over the years, and that I bloody love. I’ve had nowhere to put it while living here other than the attic. What’s the point in that? Maybe I should let it go? My other “vice” is fabric, craft materials and beads. All of which bring me tremendous joy. Dammit. One area that won’t be compromised is the kitchen, containing cookie cutters, cake boards, baking tins and trays, all manner of ingredients, sprinkles and packaging. This is work. Technically, these are the assets of my business, so they remain. Phew.

3)      Do 1) and 2) anyway but be as proactive as possible about staying. I’m SURE there must be more that I can do here. I have a couple of ideas and will spew them forth later.

I do all of this with the black dog of depression barking in my earhole, which makes it somewhat harder. It’s an illness and I have it. It’s not an excuse. It can be handled and overcome. I’m not telling you that, I’m reminding myself!

So to sum up then, using the words that Katharine Hamnett emblazoned upon George Michael in the 1984 vid for Wake Me Up Before you Go-Go, I too choose life.

How will I get on? Will Inner Voice get a triangle of Toblerone after all, for her patience? Does my counsellor get danger money? Screw your reading eyeballs in next time and find out. 

Rescue Me

Minute’s silence done. Pantomime prep on hold (it’s written, it’s cast and we’re rehearsing!) This morning’s cake delivered and nothing more until next week, (though a couple of enquiries to follow up). Period pains muted by ibuprofen, and the ludicrous and inconvenient haemorrhaging every time I stand up seems to have stemmed itself. (Sharing. You’re welcome.) It’s time to write the blog entry that could possibly save me from my latest predicament, but will definitely make me feel better for writing it.

(I know, I know – my intention was to dish the merde on Le Français, but this new issue has splatted onto the top of the pile and sits there, steaming away until I deal with it.)

Yes, of course I’m aware that the world has bigger fish to fry this week (or at least one bigoted old turbot…), and yes, I am incredibly lucky. Don’t you think I don’t know that? I practise gratitude on a daily basis. Religions aim it at their gods, often in the form of praise. I aim it at… I don’t know. The universe? Nature? Whatever it is that has brought me into this world and keeps me going, I’m grateful for. I’m grateful for beautiful sunrises and birdsong; the sky above my head; for fresh air, autumn colours, decaff Earl Grey and Lindt chocolate; for the ability to walk and think; see and hear; sing and feel. And live. I know that any of these things could disappear as suddenly as they arrived, so while they are here I bathe in their beauty, scrubbing my back with the loofah of wonder and drying myself with the towel of thankfulness.

I know that there are many, many people worse off than me. Unfortunately, thinking about them at times like this doesn’t help. It adds to my guilt and makes me speculate that maybe I’m looking at this molehill like it’s Everest. This is my problem and whatever happens, I will cope. It is not the end of the world by a long chalk, only the demolition of my little world, whose green shoots haven’t had a chance to establish roots on the rubble of the last razing.

So taking all that as read, this is the problem: My landlady is selling the house I rent.

HOW I GOT HERE

Backstory time. Be warned, I’m indulging myself in a spot of writing here, so if you don’t fancy another episode of Jacka-snory, move on to the next sub-heading. (Move on. Always with the moving…)

In my forty-one and a quarter years, I have lived at twenty-two different addresses. Twenty-two. Two before adulthood; thirteen as a student (1993 – 1998). This is my seventh address in the last fifteen years, and I only moved here in April 2014. In all that time I don’t believe I have ever felt as settled as I am now.

Being the avid reader of my blog that you are, and not just a casual glancer (e.g. someone who I served in the Mind shop last week and we got chatting and I directed you to this website,) you’ll know of my turbulent times recently i.e. Hodgkin Lymphoma (diagnosed and dispatched), splitting up with long-term partner (X), moving into home alone, depression, la la la, all since Jan 2012. X and I had a mutual parting of the ways, but were able to remain housemates for a whole fifteen months after splitting. Sadly, we realised that neither of us could grow in this situation, so it was decided (again, mutually) that I was to find my own place. I’d been dreading that moment from the minute we became single. It was every bit as unpleasant as I had expected – trawling websites to see house after unsuitable house. The first one I saw that I tolerated enough to view… was here.

It had only been on the site for a few hours. I booked an appointment immediately, and was third in line. X accompanied me. I managed to hold it together quite well. I knew I had to live somewhere else, and this place was OK. Not as nice as the place I was leaving by a long chalk. Also, it represented something scary – a life on my own, with no-one to support me but me. I’d only done that once before, sixteen years ago – my bedsit in the town next to the school where I taught briefly. That ended in a massive breakdown from which it took a while to recover. With X chatting with the agent behind me, I stood on the garden decking and cried. I did not want this, but I had it.

Despite all that, I managed to talk myself round. There was something about this house. When I closed my eyes, I could see me standing in the kitchen, working away. It felt right. Yes please, I said, telling the bemused agent to ignore my tears. Ah, but I wasn’t first in the queue was I? And both previous viewers had said the same. The Number Ones had been rejected instantly due to their pet ownership. (Ha! I thought. Silly cat-loving fools. I reap the benefit while you have to keep looking, while vacuuming animal hair from everything you have.) However, the “Number Twos” (totally appropriate name) had a life devoid of clogged Dyson filters... and became the new tenants of the only place I could see myself living.

I was devastated. Not just upset - M&S upset, which is what you get when you are depressed. The littlest, tiniest thing is magnified beyond all reason, and that’s just the littlest, tiniest thing. Something like this set me back weeks. It was too much to even look at a property website again. Black clouds were all around me. I retreated to my fur-lined rut and pulled the covers over my head. However, I could still see me standing in the kitchen, baking away and being happy. Was this a cruel torture? Or was it a future prediction? Maybe so, because the estate agent called me a few days later, saying that the NTs had failed their credit check and did I still want to rent the house.

What? Lizzie wins? Not quite, as they also needed me to prove I could afford it, which meant proving I was earning 2.5 times more than the rent. “I’ll save you the bother of an investigation,” I said. “I’m not.” I wasn’t far off it at that time, and a generous intervention from X (he is a kind man, who probably wanted a kitchen of his own too – one that wasn’t permanently coated in a thin veil of icing sugar…) meant that I was in.

I moved the day before Good Friday 2014. I called it Bad Thursday. To begin with, my new neighbour wasted no time in reducing me to tears. X had called to see how I was doing, and parked his car across my driveway. Mr Cross-Pants-next-door’s first words to me were swearing and ranting and going on about “you people” (meaning the inferior life form that tenants are, as opposed to house owners, thus reinforcing what I thought of myself at that moment). Apparently, he couldn’t get out of his driveway because X’s car was near it. Not in front of it, not obscuring it – near it. What a welcome.

Over the next few months I did my best to settle in. A handful of pals (including one who passed away the following year – not my fault, honest!) turned up a week later to help me load and unload a big van packed with my possessions, of which I have a LOT. They left me despairing among the boxes, alone and suddenly scratching away at various bits of my bod. For a short while I was scared as this had been one of my cancer symptoms, but the tiny red bumps that clustered below my knees reassured me. Not cancer, just fleas. Houses absorb a lot of effort to make them homes. I knew because I’d done it twenty-ish times before, mostly on my own. New sounds, new places to put things, new furniture needed. Battling with bugs was not on my list, and it compounded the pain. But I vowed it was going to be different. I beat cancer! I can beat this! This time I’m going to be staying; I’m darn well going to settle. A few visits from a pest control expert, and a few thousand mg of antidepressant, and I succeeded. Gradually, I went past settling and through to loving. I love living here. I accepted that maybe one day I might have to leave, but that that day would be miles away in the future. Not early next year. I am not ready to go.

WHY I LOVE IT

I know exactly where to start: The kitchen. It was the room that made me gasp, the one I pictured myself in. It’s where I’m sitting right now. I have different housing needs because I work from home, and I don’t just mean gawping at my laptop. The kitchen/dining room is perfect for me to do my baking in. The space, the gas burners, the two ovens and the centre island. The skylights – it’s a very light, airy house which works wonderfully against my depression. I look out of the window and there is green and evidence of other people. I’ve made a point of introducing myself to the neighbours and being friendly and helpful where possible, even to the chap that shouted at me on day one. (He’s had a couple of other rants too, and yet I’m still polite and civil when I see him – life is too short not to be. I wish he could see past the end of His Driveway to realise that.)

It’s not a massive house, but it’s a generous size for one person. I have filled it with my personality, which I never realised that I had been suppressing while cohabiting. It’s familiar like an old friend. The squeak of the top step, the stains on the carpet that I swear I will shampoo out when I get around to it. When I close the bedroom door at night, I am safe and peaceful. It’s just me and my home. That gratitude thing – I have done it thousands of times standing in the hallway, or resting my head against a door jamb. Feeling the solid walls almost embracing me. I am grateful beyond belief to be living here. After that less-than-auspicious start, it has taken an extraordinary amount of strength and self-improvement (and drugs) to get me to feel this way about this building.

I’m also deeply in love with the area. I’ll be heartbroken to leave the house, but desolate to leave Dursley and Cam. It’s everything I love – open countryside, rolling hills, trees, but also shops and people and things to do, community to be part of, customers to be had - all at a convenient walking distance. I have never, ever been so happily situated before. The area is something I might be able to remain in of course, so that’s less of a concern, but still a concern.

REASONS TO STAY

When I write it all out it seems so trivial. I expect most of you will be saying “So what? Why should Princess Lizzie get to stay in her palace?” Sometimes I think that too, but most of the other times I’m falling apart, or trying hard not to.

Since the spring, I have done exceptionally well. The cake-baking business is soaring. I’ve made forty-two cakes here, twenty-eight this year and all for paying customers. I am following up two enquiries, I have another five cakes booked in. And I haven’t even been advertising! I’ve been feeling so amazingly well this summer that I’m finding the courage to charge better prices. Plus courage to offer myself as a singer to places if they will pay me. I am poised to do that… but it’s all on hold while I wipe this excrement from the ventilation device.

On Monday I was beside myself with grief, and all the behaviours and feelings that I have controlled since the spring came back in one dollop that had me pinned to the shower, unable to move. Literally unable to move. Panic attacks can take different forms, and some are of-the- everything – is -  s – l – o – w –ing  down variety. I got stuck, hugging myself and leaning my head on the tiles as the water cascaded. I knew I had to be somewhere and I was late, but getting on with it was not an option at that moment. The somewhere I had to be was the charity shop where I have been a volunteer for just over twelve months. It’s helping me more than I help it, and this was a case in point. Knowing I was due there helped me overcome the panic. “I won’t let anyone down,” I repeated through the mixture of tears and shower, and gradually I was able to bring myself together. The rest of the week has been the same.

I could do without this overwhelming tiredness. It’s sucking hours out of my days. I get up (a struggle, as I’m often groggy when the alarm goes), I get a bit of work done, then I start to nod off like an old person. No, bod, I do NOT want to fall asleep after lunch and wake up a few hundred minutes later wondering what the hell the time is. It’s difficult because bed is somewhere warm and secure where worries can drift away. My winter duvet is heavy and soft, like someone’s arms around me. If I need a hug (and I do, repeatedly), that’s where I’ll go. The big D makes sleep even more enticing. The dream world is not the real world therefore it can’t hurt me. Come to bed, Lizzie…

 I don’t have much time on this planet. I really don’t want to waste it sleeping day and night.

One of my tactics for fighting this awful condition has been to fill my time and do as much for other people as I can. My goodness me, it works. It’s another thing that has taken a lot of courage and mental effort to do. I don’t want to have to set it all up again. My new (and as yet unrevealed on this blog) hobby is also based locally. Yeah I know I could do it anywhere, but not with the people I do it with here. It’s close. I cycle. I walk, absorbing the delicious country all about me. I LOVE IT HERE. I know I won’t necessarily have to leave this town. It’s just another reason why I want to stay.

I don’t want to live with other people. In that multitude of addresses is included a plethora of housemates, some were born housemates, some achieved housemateness; others had housemate status thrust upon ‘em. As I’m not good with work colleagues, so I’m even less able with home colleagues. Living alone works for me. It’s a two-way thing – no-one to irritate me, likewise no-one I can irritate by working odd hours or leaving the kitchen after a marathon caking session to sleep (or even live a few days) before I’ve cleared it up. I’m not good with through-the-wall noises, especially bass beats or kids screaming. Conversely, I sing. Very loudly, a lot of the time, whenever I feel like it. I’ve taken to practising piano just before bed. I am not a quiet girl. My current through-the-wall neighbour is so deaf that (if I had one) I could turn the volume down on my TV and listen to his instead. This actually doesn’t bother me! At least I know he’s alive…

The space works for me. The lounge is predominantly a music room (see previous blog entry) housing my piano, now furnished with the Grade 2 pieces I am fast-tracking my way through. I’m making that dream a reality, and that is definitely thanks to the house.

It is not to say that I won’t find somewhere I love just as well, maybe better. The point I am making is that I don’t want to have to. If it ain’t broke etc.

Moving takes a lot of effort – physically and mentally. Finding somewhere, viewing it, liking it, having your application accepted. Then all the packing and worrying while you continue with your daily life. The day itself. The aftermath – all that settling in malarkey, changing postal addresses for everything you are signed up to. Getting broadband and phone suppliers sorted out. I know I’m an expert now, but it doesn’t get any easier.

Each time I’ve moved, the transport and assistance I’ve needed to do so has increased in size. I can’t imagine what vast vehicle I’ll have to hire this time, nor the swathes of mates I will have to beg to help. At least I know that there are mates. And, like the items I have accumulated in my time here, there are many more than there were when I moved in. Unlike those items, I won’t be having to flog them to make space and reduce my embarrassment at having them all paraded out in front of me and bunged in a van. 

REASONS TO GO

Because I have to.

THE PROBLEM

Why can’t I remain? The Landlady has been very kind throughout my stay in her house. She continues to extend that kindness by offering me first dibs on the house. Me? Buy a house? I never saw myself as a homeowner, for reasons that take us to the crux of the matter – cold, hard cash and my lack thereof.

If you want some figures, I can let you know privately. It might be foolhardy of me to discuss finances in detail on this worldwide stage. Suffice it to say that I have Y% deposit scraped together, meaning I would need to borrow £Zk to make the balance. Easy peasy? For an employed person maybe. For a couple. For an employed couple, lovely. Not for “businesswoman” Lizzie Lindsell, spinster of this parish.

Everyone has to jump through hoops to achieve a mortgage, right. If you are self-employed, they add a few more hoops and stick them up high. Then set fire to them. Then hand you a blindfold. I’d have less chance of getting through than a hell-bound snowball. I have to provide evidence of my income for the past five years. As mentioned earlier, they haven’t been the greatest five years of my life, so my income isn’t half of what it would need to be. I’m trying to get some solid financial advice on this, but not getting far as the advisers take a look at my figures and, knowing that commission on £0 is £0, don’t get back to me. Not even to laugh in my stupid hopeful face.

SUMMARY

(For the word-shy and time-pressed)

1)      Landlord selling house I rent.

2)      I cannot buy it.

3)      I don’t want to move.

4)      Please help.

WHAT TO DO

As a true Lizzie, I am not giving up without a fight. (I will fight first - then I’ll give up.) However the first battle is getting myself battle-ready, through the renewed depression and everything else. I don’t need this now. The pantomime, Mind and [new hobby] are where I’m diverting my waning energy because they keep me sane and stop me thinking of myself. Most importantly, I have to keep working, and working harder as my income MUST increase. Christmas is usually a good time for sales, though I don’t have the Food Fairs any more, making it less easy to find custom. Maybe five years down the line I will be in a position to buy, but I don’t have five years. I haven’t even got five weeks. The house will go on the market at the end of November.

You will argue to me that I can make anywhere my home. I’ve done it before, you will say: I can do it again. Let me stop you right there. I KNOW. And I will if I must because I will have no choice. Oh Lizzie, you’ll cry, you are such a strong person. I AM. But maybe I’m fed up of being strong, huh? Maybe I’m exhausted and could do with some respite for a change.

I’m still trying to get advice. I’ve heard that there is government assistance, though how helpful that will be, and my eligibility are still unknowns.

I could try crowdfunding, but I haven’t the first idea of how to go about it. And besides, who’d give me money just so I can live in a house I like? There are many more, worthier causes. I’d feel a fraud even asking.

Reading this over, I see that my thinking has slipped back to the old “poor me wah wah wah” style which I do not want to resurrect. I need to find the positivity. Here’s a little tip for picking yourself out of a depressive slump:

Focus on something else.

This is so effective, but requires concentration if you’re doing it by yourself. It’s quite easy too. E.g. walking back home this morning I started to cry. Knowing this wasn’t what I wanted, I made myself look at my surroundings. It’s like waving a rattle at a crying baby. A distraction technique. The beautiful autumn morning helped a great deal. Don’t just look though - see. I saw autumn leaves on the ground, some still clinging on, some falling as I passed and such beautiful colours. I saw starlings taking a bath in a gutter. A blackbird hopping about on a lawn. The sky over my head – that’s a very good one. The sky is always there. Look up and feel its greatness. It’s vast and it’s right above you. Listening is good too – such beautiful birdsong on a really peaceful morning. I didn’t even notice that I’d stopped crying, and I was no longer hunched over as I walked. A couple of caveats though: firstly, it won’t work if you don’t want it to. You must allow it. Secondly, ignore the crap stuff you might also see. I noticed litter and it made me angry, but that was not helpful. Getting cross about it and even picking it up and taking it to a bin was for another day.

The reason I wrote this is to ask for help. Help can come in many forms. If there’s none to be had, that’s fine. No-one and nothing, except maybe your eyeballs, will have been harmed by my asking.

CAN YOU HELP?

I don’t want something for nothing. I don’t know what I want really, other than to stay here. I’m an excellent tenant (no pets, no kids, respect for the property, rent paid on time) and I always say that sarcastically, but it’s true! If I could part-own the house, that would be even better. Giving me a chance to build my income and investing my piddly deposit into something that might make it grow. If staying is not an option, I will accept it, but it will take everything I have and more besides to keep my head on the air side of the River of Despond.

Email me at thewizzylizzie@gmail.com with your thoughts or kind words; share this blog as far and wide as you can. There must be someone, somewhere who can throw me a lifeline.

In the meantime I am bracing myself for the ultimate cruelty of my situation – assisting in a house sale that I don’t want to happen and won’t benefit from. All the stuff one does to prep for selling - I’ll do it. And with good grace, because it’s right and that is much more important than winning.

This lightning storm

This tidal wave

This avalanche, I'm not afraid

C'mon, c'mon no one can see me cry

Fabulous, Baby!

Well lookie what we have here. This is supposed to be part two of my "work" blog, but instead this is the instalment you would have got after that, arriving at your eyeballs much sooner than planned and with a totally different ending, thanks to the events of last night.

Everyone associates this time of year with weather and colour, bonfires and pumpkins. For me, for the last decade or so, it's meant double sets of auditions: Both local theatre groups that I am affiliated with hold theirs within days of each other usually - one for a February pantomime, one for a late spring musical.  It's a trying time and no mistake.

The spring musical audition - Sister Act - happened first and right slap bang in the middle of Calamity Jane, the musical I was performing with the other group. I had been asked repeatedly if I was going to try for the lead, and eventually convinced myself that yes, I would. It was a hard convince. What with my finances and fitness, I really wasn't sure. But every day the mirror reminds me that younger is something I am not getting, and that I really have to seize these chances while I have them. It turned out that the decision was the easy part. Time and mental health conspired against me. I tore myself away from set building and prop making to attend the Sunday evening audition, the night before our first dress rehearsal. Unsurprisingly I was a mess of a girl. Randomly blubbing, incessantly trembling and clinging on to fragments of songs that I'd only got hold of the previous day. Of course you put all this behind you when you're performing. Well I started my performance long before being up in front of the judges, believe me.

I had been unable to make either of the readthrough/singthrough sessions, though I rarely attend these anyway, as a glimpse of the competition can scare me off. This is less likely in an audition scenario as by then you will have made up your mind to go for it, and only Elaine Paige or similar would have you legging it back to the car. I usually dress with the character in mind as it helps me to feel them. This character wasn't the least bit subtle, so neither was I. I looked way OTT for 6pm, but I pretended not to care. The worst that can happen is that you look like a total nobhead when you don't get the role. So be it. I can do nobhead, it would be OK. I just have to put myself through this.

Nobhead, 2015

I couldn't face being in the room where my fellow victims lingered (especially not while wearing sequins and stupid high boots). Instead I hovered outside, waiting to be called. There were three of us up for Deloris - two long-serving members, and a new girl, which is never a good thing. You don't know what a stranger is capable of. I had been that stranger a couple of times, many years ago. Dizzy from the combination of Rescue Remedy and Vocalzone on an empty stomach and a full bladder, I waited some more. That's all you can do now. Just wait until you are called and do your best. At last, I was called. And what I delivered on this occasion was almost the complete opposite of my best.

I sucked BALLS. I said as much (though with less vulgarity) to the five panellists, who already knew me and thus looked a bit puzzled as to the monstrosity I had shat out for them. What had happened to me? Tired? Nervous? Definitely under-prepared. But then I have prepared myself inside out in the past and not got roles and vice versa. It was just not possible at this time to give them my all, as more than half of it was in the Black Hills of Dakota. Why had I auditioned? Why didn't I ask if I could come later as this date wasn't convenient. If I had been on holiday or cold-ridden, this is what I would have done. Those who were both of those things had been given a second chance to do what they would otherwise have missed. 

Unluckily for me, the director was a one-shot guy. A principal he holds most strongly, and one that I disagree with. This isn't X-Factor where that would be the case: this is amateur stuff! We are all supposed to be mates, at the very least treating each other with understanding. And yet, he went all Simon Cowell on my ass.

On seeing that there were to be further auditions as no decisions had been made, I let the anti-depressants do the talking and wrote an email begging for another shot. Not alone, of course - I wanted no advantage over my competitors, just a chance to show the panel what they would have seen that Sunday, had I not been whatever it was I had been. It turned out that the other two Delori (plural of Deloris, obvs) had been called back for the Tuesday... but not me. Why not me? The cold-ridden and holidaying had also got their chances... why not me? I could only resort to pushiness, and declared to the whole panel this time that I was going to be there that night anyway and would they please let me try again. Amazingly, I was granted permission, but by now I had no expectation that it would change anything. I just wanted to redeem myself. I knew that prejudice had its bottom wedged comfortably on the casting couch, and there wasn't a hope it would budge up to allow fairness to perch.

Given that, I had been rooting for the other group member to get the role. She and I have a history of going up for the same prizes only to have them snatched from in front of our nostrils. It is a hard deal. Having worked yourself up into a frenzy of self-belief - you want this, you'd be PERFECT for it - you endure hours of preparation and hope, and trying not to spew on your script, which leads to a few short minutes, where whatever you say or do is being judged. When you don't achieve your objective, it hurts bad. It's a long way to fall. I had shared her pain many times, so it would have relieved mine a great deal on this occasion to see her victorious. Sadly this was not to be either, and the new lady became Deloris. I was genuinely pleased for her too, but not as pleased as I might have been had the outcome been different. My friend got understudy (a thankless task) plus a consolation role; I was offered the other consolation role, so undefined as it could have been one or the other. To be honest, I can't remember much about it as I was concentrating hard on sustaining my happy face until out of eyeshot.  You think I can't act huh....?

In the darkness of the rest of the week, I considered the offer carefully, putting aside the inevitable sensations of loss and rejection to be rational: I would have a part in a show that would be a lot of fun. Not the part I had made myself desire, but that wouldn't matter. I could still be in it, with all that wonderful brass and string music, being one of a team creating something special. Unfortunately, at two rehearsals per week, getting more intense as the show loomed, it didn't seem like a good move. I knew I was going to be involved with the other group, one way or another, which would have meant upwards of three evenings out, escalating to four plus Sunday afternoons. I often work into the evening, and if I know I'm going out, I have to take extra rest in the afternoon to make space for that. For a lead role, I wouldn't have cared. I would have slept instead of working, and made my money in some unsavoury manner to tide me over for such a wonderful opportunity. I couldn't justify that for backing singer/no.19 nun. 

Sadly, I declined. Most sadly because this is not the attitude that amateur theatre thrives on, and it's certainly not an attitude I want to have. However I considered that it was as much group-spirited as casting a professional singer who has never performed with the group before (and may not again, as has happened in the past...) over long-serving and loyal members who could have made an equal job of the deal. The difference is that I hate myself for it, and wish that my life situation wasn't forcing me to take this stance.

NB I may not be right about the "professional" bit, but I know she is established with a big swing band. I've seen them perform. They're ace. Sister Act is going to be great.

If that had been the end of it, I would have been happy to toddle back to anonymity but no. Calamity Jane had just blown in to the windy city of Finished, and the other group was all set for a panto. Oh yes they were.

Pantomime is where I began with this lark, nearly twenty-two years ago. Cue a pause from current events to launch into a retrospective of my musical theatre times, with pictures where I can scrape the dust from them:

The first panto I ever did was at school. Up until then I had auditioned twice for school shows and not got roles, not even made the chorus. I was a tall, chunky, unpopular girl with specs you could serve meals on. It gave me the message that I wasn't good enough to compete with the shiny people. So I found myself ASM-ing Dick Whittington. The backstage crew were encouraged to join in with the chorus singing from the wings, and I happily belted Ring Out the Bells with everyone else for the finale. It didn't go unnoticed. When Babes in the Wood came up the following year, I considered being a chorus member, and told the director so.

"Oh no Liz, I'd like you to go for Principal Boy", she said.  

Me? Really?

So my first role in a pantomime was Robin Hood, and I loved it.

At Uni I went along to the first meeting of BUMS - (Bath University Musical Society) and was instantly frightened off by all the pretty, talented and exuberant folk. I recall in particular a girl called Becky, who rounded off the evening doing I Wanna Dance With Somebody at the karaoke, and got spontaneous applause for the high notes she accurately pitched. I never attended the second meeting, and went through university musical-free.

Similarly devoid was my riotous year PGCE-ing at York, save a brief appearance in Manor School's Millennium Miscellany - one of the few "teachers" to take part. 

Let's call the WHOLE thing off... 1998

I did a fairly unrehearsed Let's Call the Whole Thing Off, and joined the kids in the choir. In my first year of proper teaching in Worcs, I wrote and directed the spring school show. It was supposed to have been HMS Pinafore, and I can't remember why that was pulled. I remembered the previous year's performance, and suggested we did similar, as it was 1999. Thus our Century Revue was born, in which I got another solo (With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm) and led a couple of numbers, as I was the person in charge. That was lots of fun.

Having lots of fun at the Century Revue, 1999

The following year, addled with depression and loneliness (hmm, sound familiar?) I noticed a sign outside the town hall: Little Shop of Horrors - Open Auditions.  Something (probably the drugs) made me go, and I won the role of Ronnette, one of the three singing street-urchins. Now that was one of my favourites. 

Horrors 2000, just before curtain up. Come-a come-a come-a...

Harmony singing, dancing, glam costumes... plus a whole bunch of new friends. I'd go out for a drink after rehearsals, and suddenly the town where my bedsit sat wasn't such a lonely place after all. I even had boozing companions at weekends! (And did I booze... oh yes.) Next was Jack and the Beanstalk, and I ended up disappointed to be cast as The Crystal Fairy. I didn't consider myself in the least bit fairy-like! I changed the role and the dialogue, and became the Great Northern Fairy, with L-O-V-E and L-O-V-E tattooed on both sets of knuckles. 

2001 Crystal Fairy, my sparkly arse!

I'm not sure the director was impressed, but I got away with it. Unfortunately the group was not enough to sustain my spirits, and that was the last I did with them. Depression led to a breakdown. I moved to Bristol, and completed the task by supply teaching at a couple of really nasty schools. The icing on the cack.

My Jabba years ensued. I wallowed in an antidepressant haze, eating whatever was edible and eschewing work (see 9 to 5). In 2002 I noticed a banner advertising My Fair Lady by a local group. I called their membership secretary and he said to come along to the readthrough for their panto, Sleeping Beauty. I recalled how helpful LSOH had been in my recuperation, so I went for it. Thus began my relationship with TMTG and serious commitment to musical theatre.

Annie Get Your Gun, 2003.  More like Lizzie Get Your Butt Down To Slimming World. 

In 2005 I got together with X, who was at the time MDing both TMTG and DODS, (that same local bunch who are Sister Act-ing in April). Their 2006 show was Little Shop of Horrors - really! My previous experience gave me the guts to try out as Ronnette, even repeating the dance routine for the audition. I got the part, my first role with the group. OK, I was a stranger it is true, but the circumstances were different. It wasn't the lead role for a start, and I was definitely coming back for more.

Horrors 2006, complete with Audrey One

Having a partner on the audition panel is not the bonus you might think. Where he might have spoken up for me before our connection, his new partiality was tricky to negotiate. Not only that, but he would come home knowing the panel's decisions, but not being permitted to tell me! The cause of many a tense hour or so, especially in our early days, where it mattered a great deal to me that I could share a show with him. Of course now he's not my partner, it's even stranger! Who auditions in front of their ex? Me. Repeatedly. Still.

As we were pretty inseparable for many years, I felt compelled to try out for anything he was involved in. I didn't want to be left home alone while he was rehearsing. One thing that stood in the way of this was my confidence. He was always very encouraging. In his opinion I was just as good as anyone else, and stood as much chance of a part. This was a game changer for me. Suddenly I was able to go for things I would never have considered. His belief in me gave me strength. I've not had many leads, but I've had the guts to try. Whenever I haven't achieved the role I wanted, I've always thought that the person who got it was much better at it than I would have been. But then I would, wouldn't I? If there is any bitterness, it stems from disappointment. Extreme disappointment, which you can't begin to understand unless you have ever failed at an audition. Homer Simpson said:

 "Trying is the first step toward failure."

Without external support and with two fistfuls of recent rejections, I can see the donut-filled d'oh-brain's point. There isn't much more "try" in me. And yet part two of my autumnal audition agony was still to come...

I made my mind up not to go to the Aladdin readthrough. No. Nope. Didn't fancy it. Didn't want to see the competition. Had had a bad week, didn't want to leave the house. It was enough to know that I would be in this show, no matter what. Pantomime is a genre with which I'm more at home than Red Riding Hood's granny. I've been involved in fifteen to date: backstage/directing for three, chorus for one, and some sort of role for the remaining eleven, three of which were Principal Boy. There was no need for me to worry. 

I spent the afternoon making truffles in preparation for one of the four Christmas markets I'll be selling at. It was a soothing activity, made more so by the fact that I knew I was staying in. I'd even had beans for lunch, which I only do with confidence when I know there is no possibility of company for the rest of the day. I wonder how they're getting on, I thought and glanced at the clock. It was only 6.30pm. An idea flashed through my mind.... I could still go. (But I'd had beans!! Screw it. They're my friends, they'll understand.) It wasn't too late to join them.

Reader, I did just that! Again, I don't know what possessed me. A combination of the SA audition fail fuelled by drugs, plus the fear of yet another night Home Alone. Yes, I had to summon up a lot of strength to make the twelve-mile drive in the pitch black to plunge into the unknown, but I did it and I was proud. I had a giggle reading parts in different voices, and unwound myself enough to sign up for auditions.

I suppose I ought to thank the Sister Act director for his harsh lesson. There was no way I was going to be under-prepared this time. Some of the things he said to me during the whole SA debacle had been really upsetting. I had a determination to prove him wrong: depression, shmepression! This time I had possession of my all, however temporarily, and I was going to give it or be damned. Also, these tryouts take an "open" form - everyone who is going for a role is watching everyone else. An interesting concept, one that I'd balked at when first it was introduced. The advantage is that you are seeing what the panel see, so you can make your own judgements. It means there's more of a team feel to it, and you have an audience to respond to you - highly important in this genre. It also means that your peers can see you. Yes, I balked at it originally. These days I just loathe it, and can't wait until it's over.

The script is one we'd done ten years ago, when I had played Princess Mandarin's handmaiden So-Shy. Maybe this time I'll not be So-Shy. Eh? Eh? Please yourselves.

So-Shy, or not So-Shy? 2006

On Friday I printed out the audition pieces and read them into my dictaphone. On Saturday I played them over and over while steaming clothes at the charity shop. I went over them before bedtime on Saturday night, on Sunday night, and just before dressing up (pre-nobhead style) on Monday evening. The words were sticking like inferior brand wallpaper: Some bits attached, some didn't, some stuck and then slid slowly away while I was looking at other bits. Some bits didn't even pretend to stick, despite having been held down and threatened with a nail. Bloody tablets mean I have to work a lot harder to keep stuff in.

I was the first girl to try for Aladdin, and the first auditionee of the evening to speak. Just in case I wasn't feeling more pressure than my elastic support pants, selected carefully for the evening's strutting. After each section I returned to my seat and huddled up miserably, trying to keep calm and remain in the room. The adrenaline built gradually, and luckily my confidence with it, though not quite as logarithmically. It was hell. I was so distracted that I went for the thigh slap, as all good Principal Boys should, and missed my flippin' leg! Honestly. Missable is not something my thighs are renowned for being. Dammit. And dammit. 

I was one of the few to have memorised my lines, and was stunned to find that I actually remembered them throughout the Aladdin bits. When I got to the Genie, it was over an hour later. I'd seen seven Abanazars by that point, and fatigue was unpeeling my wallpaper like a good'un. I had a lovely little improvised rhyme about being a "Genie with a J", but messed it up. All the shakes had rendered me a gibbering wreck. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

At least this hell came to a halt and the prospective cast repaired to a nearby hostelry to begin the wait for results. A long-drawn, agonised wait usually, which can't possibly end in satisfaction for all. I was ready to flee, but considered that it might be better to stay around people than not. In the last fortnight I have had little human contact, which isn't good for anyone. What harm could a little more company do? In the friendly atmosphere I relaxed, striking up conversation and even laughing a little. Until the panel returned, record-breakingly soon.

I felt the tension grip me, and I moved from my seat onto the floor, where I could face my judges and would look less nobheady in my leather boots and short dress get-up. It gave me the added advantage of my friend's leg, which I clung to for comfort, not even bothering to ask for permission. The director went through the usual post-audition-director-speech, thanking everyone for coming, saying  that  it   was   a   high   standard,

a-n-y-o-n-e   c-o-u-l-d   h-a-v-e  

p--l--a--y--e--d    a---n---y 

o------f     

t------h------e  

r------o------l-------e------s......

(Everything went slow-mo, my heart pounded in my ears. Clutching the trouserleg before me, I focussed on the ladder in my tights and braced myself for

Nobhead-dom.)

"Aladdin is...."

Lizzielizzielizzielizzielizziepleasesaylizziepleasesaylizzie PLEASE SAY

".... Lizzie"

Oh holy crap. I did it. Principal Boy at forty! And an eponymous one at that!!

(I understand that my liberal use of this word is confusing some people - it means that the name of the show is derived from the lead character's name: Calamity Jane, Sweet Charity, Billy Elliot, Annie, Evita - all eponymous roles. Panto-wise, you have Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots, and Aladdin. Oh, and patronising.... that means talking down to people.)

I must have got back home because I've been sitting here for the last few hours spewing this lot out in lieu of work. When you've gotta blog, you've gotta blog! What has happened to me between that moment in the pub and now is blurry, to say the least. I cannot concentrate. I tried so hard to do some compiling, but I kept being interrupted by well-wishers offering me congratulation. Even when there's silence, my bonce contents are spinning like a magic carpet in a Chinese laundry.

I wish I could lift the veil on the pleasure I might be affording from all this. Once again, the tablets make it like everything is wrapped in cellophane. I want to weep with relief - the auditions are over, and I have something to hold me up and keep me going across the bleakness of winter. When I had cancer, I was fighting to live. There were a couple of moments where I truly thought it was up for me, and I wasn't ready. I gave Mr H everything I had and I won. It took a lot more out of me than I had expected. Which makes it ironic that now I sometimes feel that to put my head down and sleep long; to drift away in oblivion, waking up when - and only when - this hell is over, would be good. These are black thoughts and they come, in spite of my total abhorrence of them. After the struggle for life, why would I want to relinquish it? It makes no sense.

So that audition panel, they have no idea what a lifebelt they have thrown me. I've put it on and I'm bobbing up and down in the rapids, still being tossed about, but now supported. I don't think I've been more grateful for a part in my entire performing career.

The world has a glow to it today. Even though it's grey outside, there is something that has been missing for a long, long time. A touch of excitement? More like hope. It's a tiny, tiny flickering flame. I feel like being kind to people and getting on with things that aren't sleeping or seeing how many Twirl Bites I can cram into my mouth before needing to clean my teeth again. People believe in me today - it's a bona fide fact. All that trying and failing and recovering, and trying and failing.... suddenly I've tried and succeeded and it makes a refreshing change. In your yellow face, Homer!

So I shall take the role I have so wonderfully been bestowed, and I will embrace it with everything I have. Tiny flame, keep the darkness at bay please, just for now. Keep flickering and don't go out, and who knows... maybe you'll build up into the blaze that I used to be, and that I could be again.  

Will Lizzie be able to find her arse with both hands? Will you get your tickets to see Aladdin at the Armstrong Hall in Thornbury, Feb 10th to 13th 2016 www.TMTG.org.uk? Will you ever get to read the second part of the "work" blog? Answers to none of the above and less when the curtain goes up next time...