Meet Me On the Corner

I've got a date.

He seems nice, and from his one profile picture, he looks OK. But you can't really tell from a picture what someone is going to be like, can you? 

My profile pic. Can you tell who she is yet?

You can't even tell what they really look like! I know some delicious-looking folk who just don't take a good photo. Likewise, I know how many pics I have to take, from all different angles (usually me looking up to the camera) before I get one that I'm happy with, though it often doesn't bear much resemblance to me. Everyone comments "Wow, what a lovely picture" and I think "Hehe, little do you know..."  

Little do you know.

One reason why I decided to sign up was because I am fed up with not meeting anyone new. I also miss going out and doing stuff with a special someone. Y'know - let's get a coffee, let's go for a walk, let's see a film. So when he suggested we meet up, I said yes right away. We've only exchanged a couple of messages, and they've not been that wordy. (Actually, mine were more on the long-winded side. I know you'll find that hard to believe.) I also think that I'm better in person than on paper. Anyone who has met me knows that I like to smile and laugh, and make daft jokes. These things come across less well in the written word.  (NB I like to smile and laugh. I don't always get the opportunity. I'm trying very hard not to descend into miserable old bag-ness, though it seems easier some days.)

Such a miserable old bag...

So we are going to meet on Saturday morning. Somewhere local to me, which is a relief, as I'll feel safe. I have to reassure myself a lot these days that I am safe and OK and that no-one is going to hurt me. I'm not talking about physical pain - it's more of a comfort thing, to calm the panic and tension I often feel. I know it's odd meeting in the am, but I have the gig in the evening, and I would like to rest up beforehand. There's no "I'll-be-under-the-clock-wearing-a-red-carnation" here. It's all "I'll text you when I've arrived". Plus I'll probably recognise him from his pic. Technology leaches a bit of the romance out of things.

I am, of course, terrified. For so many reasons. In fact, I am blinded with an adrenalin headache, that started yesterday when the event was confirmed, and is now into to its twenty-fifth hour. The only time my jaw has unlocked is when I'm pouring chocolate into it. My whole bod is more wound up than Zebedee after a month of abstinence.

Firstly, what if I hate him? When I announced the date on FB, I had a flood of supportive comments. Plus one about a rhino, but never mind. Several friends remarked that I'd know within minutes of meeting if I like him. I imagine the same would go for the opposite emotion. My fear is that I'll think he's rotten, but won't want to hurt his feelings by clearing off directly, and therefore I'll be stuck with him. I know that even if my initial reaction involves holding back a mouthful of sick, I would still give him a chance, in case I am wrong. I can always walk away. I don't ever have to see him again. It's just tough disappointing someone. I'm never comfortable with that.

Then the antithesis, which is worse as I'd have no control over this: What if I think he's the bee's knees, but he thinks I'm the mule's stools? My self-esteem will probably be assuming this every second I'm with him, and I'll have to keep reminding myself that he wouldn't be there if he didn't want to be. Also, that this is just a meeting. Two people, having a drink and talking. It is NOT a binding legal contract to spend the rest of our lives together. 

We're meeting in public, in daylight and I shall NOT be inviting him back to mine, nor giving him my address. That's a bit of fear that I can deal with, for now.

Ah, this whole internet dating thing has left me feeling fragile. It seems so forced; artificial, even. I've returned to a shrinking, forlorn being, hugging myself and having the occasional blub. The necessity for this whole thing - the process, the pantomime - it makes my heart sore.

Reading the profiles on the website, I'm often struck with a feeling of inferiority. I'm never going to be good enough for these chaps. This is Guardian Soulmates - recommended to me by several folk, which is why I signed up. Of course I should have considered the fact that a lot of its users are Guardian readers! Dur. I am not. I don't read broadsheets. Or even newspapers. (BBC News Website, in case you were wondering how I know what's going on.) So there are many highbrow blokes on there. I've already encountered a film director, travel writer, actor - even a double Emmy Award winner! It's not just jobs, it's attitudes too. I know I have to ignore the profiles declaiming celeb culture and soap operas (not that I'm into either, I just work with them...) and find the ones that match me. It's hard not to feel belittled. Match.com was similar, but from the opposite end. Most messages I received were littered with bad spelling, text abbreviations and - gasp - misplaced apostrophes. To me, that's just as big a turn-off as halitosis! So from being a big(ger) fish in the Match pond, I move to being a relative tiddler in the ocean of Guardian, and quite frankly I'm floundering.

Is this my sole-mate?

I am frightened of all these scary new blokes and longing for the comfort of already knowing someone and not having to go through all the tedious introductory blah-blah. While I do have those moments of soul-sucking loneliness, I also have times where I'm almost relieved not to have anyone else to worry about. I sit at my laptop, binge-watching Frasier, my glass of water at my side (not wine), having just toasted a few marshmallows over the gas cooker for pudding. Who would put up with such quirks? In past relationships, I've suppressed them, worried that I'd scare my partner off if I revealed the real me. I don't think that's healthy. Somewhere I must summon up the gall to be myself and back that up.

I have an increasing desire to change my appearance in some way - like I don't wish to look like me any more. Is this what they call a mid-life crisis? The few grey hairs poking out and taunting me are just asking to be dealt with. I have even been seriously considering a tattoo - just a small one - to remind me to live. I feel I'm dowdy, mumsy (without actually being a mother) and bland. I want to exude colour and fun, not look like a sixth-form prefect from 1952. I'm pretty sure this is all in my mind, though my sagging skin and bagging chops don't help. 

Make-up-free me

Incidentally, the pics in this blog entry are some of the ones that go with my profile. It's not a sudden attack of narcissism! We're instructed to use a variety of recent pics that build an idea of what we like and what we are like. Full-length ones are recommended. You'll have seen most of them before. I don't seem to have many up-to-date ones. This one's the oldest, from Jan 2014:

I enjoy a good strum. (Not a euphemism.)

I know I need to be patient. I remind myself that this time three years ago, I was half way through a twenty-four week period of chemo hell. That's where I learned patience. I bucked against it every day, every painful fatigue-fuelled hour. It got more and more difficult as the sessions went on, like climbing an increasing incline. However I got to the top in the end. I'm forever being told "when you stop looking, that's when you'll find someone." As a single person, I don't think you really ever stop looking. I had made a conscious decision to do that, but it didn't work, hence all this palaver.

Full-length and floaty

I am also scared of making a bad decision. When vulnerability comes a-knocking, reason escapes out of the bathroom window, thus leading to some questionable life choices. And yet I'm going on this date. I think I've only ever been on one date before. It was in my teaching days, and it was dull. I was relieved to escape the guy, who looked like Penfold.

Crumbs, Chief! She's watching Frasier again.

I knew he looked like Penfold beforehand, but I still agreed to go out with him, giving him the benefit of my mounting doubts. The animated Penfold was quite cute and cuddly, if a bit wet; the date Penfold was so much less. The only underwear he managed to divest me of was my socks, via the boredom method. I allowed a polite amount of time before I "simply had to get back to do some marking." That was my one and only foray into the dating world.

Yes, this is how I treat blokes who lie about their height

Saturday's chap doesn't resemble a cartoon character. He's tall (so he says) and intelligent, and I am going to meet him with my baggy chops held high, being the very essence of myself, as that is all I am.

Will it be love at first sight, or Gaviscon all round? Will he turn up, see me and run? What the hell am I going to wear? BROAD daylight - what was I thinking? All the answers and more to be unleashed on your eyeballs very soon...

Let Me Entertain You

Not written for months because... well I don't know. I haven't been bothered to do a lot of things, (even though I've had a to-do list longer than my monkey arms) maybe that is why. Since February, I have had the pantomime, then 'flu, food fair and... what? What happened to me? Direction disappeared, energy waned. It all went - to borrow a much-overused interjection - meh.

Pied Piper Panto...

... Food Fair frolics.

I have really enjoyed watching Spring happen - daffodils and snowdrops unfolding; then all manner of blossom; lambs, so helpless and sproingy; bluebells, and the explosion of greenery that's currently evident everywhere. It's delicious!

Forsythia. Nice to see you, to see you..

The deliciousness of Spring

So why can't seem to summon up as much enthusiasm as I used to for walking? If there is a reason not to - it's too windy; I'm already cold; I need to work; too many people about; there's a bone in my leg, etc it's very easy to accept it. Today it has been gorgeous outside, if a little chilly, and I could probably have been tempted were it not for raging pain of the one-week-every-three variety. (That is more of a valid reason, I suppose.) Instead I perch delicately on my Seat of Death as Saturday afternoon turns to evening, which for me means more loneliness and waiting around to eat or sleep.

Yes, dammit, I find comfort from both. I fight an hourly battle against food. Chocolate feels so ridiculously good. I eat some after every meal now, as well as in between. It's a habit that I've let myself get into, which I'd really like to break. The sugar doesn't make me feel well, never mind guilt that follows. I find it hard to believe that I used to be so disciplined I once lost over six stone sticking to Slimming World, the shreds of which are still evident in my current eating plan. My meals themselves are pretty healthy, and I would be doing fantastically, if they weren't all supplemented by Mr Cadbury.

Sleep is also blissful, though my dreams are intense, and usually filled with anxious situations. I often find myself shouting, screaming at members of my family, panicking that I have left the comfort of my home for the chaos of where I grew up. I've even started having the old "teaching a class of unruly kids" classic again. ("Sit down. SIT down. SIT DOWN. SHUT UUUP! SHUT UUUUP!! SHUT UUUUUUUUUPPP!!!) It's based on the reality of my teaching days all those years ago, though I managed to train myself to walk away as soon as I realised it was a dream. Interestingly, the last time I had it, I announced to the class that I didn't have to put up with this, and was about to move on to some alternative dreamscape, when one pupil said:

"What's the matter? Is Miss giving up? Chicken."

I wouldn't normally react to that sort of challenge, certainly not in real life, but on this occasion, even though I knew I was in my imagination, I couldn't leave the room. Me? Give up? Nahhhh.

Punctuating the yelling and anger are gems of dreams that boil down to someone loving me. The comfort from those is nothing that any Lindt product could ever match. The person in question is usually a stranger, or an actor I've stared at all gooey-eyed through many episodes of the same show. They are often tall, good-looking, and they smile ever so much, because I make them smile.

They tell me that they want to be with me and I can't believe it - that someone so gorgeous would desire a scrag-end like me. Yet they do, they are smitten, and I go from incredulity to exultation as I bathe in their affection. There's no naughtiness, by the way! Just love. I'm always sorry to wake up and let reality touch me with its bony fingers. So sleep -  good.

But of course this is not the way I want to live my life! I mean, that's the life of a woman forty years my senior, surely? I'll have plenty of time for that later. What of those vows I made at the top of the year? As we're hurtling toward the halfway point of 2015, allow me to review in reverse order:

5) Keep smiling. I'm doing my best. (Said through gritted teeth.) It's been ten months since the first lot of sertraline, and about three since the dose was doubled (at my request.) Sometimes it works so well, I laugh at random things and can't stop grinning. Lately, it hasn't been doing that, and I'm wondering if I'm building up a tolerance to it. I always thought medication was the reason for my previous ballooning, so I am reluctant to change. Therefore, I am doing as much as the condition allows me to do to fight it.

I keep hearing that mindfulness is a good way to combat depression. It's certainly something my counsellor has been nudging me towards. She recommended a book - Mind Calm by Sandy Newbigging. (Crazy name, annoyingly sane guy...) I bought it. It sits by my bed, bookmark wedged into the place where I last dropped off in its pages. Yes, I am reading it. Slowly, but surely. Between its poorly-written self-congratulatory paragraphs, there are nuggets of sense, but they are so few and far between, I am losing interest. I've never been one for non-fiction, and self-help leaves me cold. However, in the spirit of trying to heal myself, I'm giving it a whirl. It's exactly what you'd expect, with the irritating feature that he hasn't actually told me how I'm to achieve this "peace in mind" stuff yet, and I'm nearly a third of the way through. JUST TELL ME ALREADY!  

Linked with this is meditation, which I stink at. Imagine an out-of-control carousel, whirling around and around, not stopping. That's my mind. It doesn't slow easily; New thoughts ping off it like toddlers who weren't holding on properly. With mindfulness, you are focusing on one thing, which should centre you and bring you peace. The problem is, I can't get the carousel to stall enough to take on board this concept! I downloaded several guided meditations from YouTube to get me started. I like the ones that tell me exactly what to think of, though I'm still struggling with that. Take this one:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SuH5LlrAm8

It's my favourite so far, where a friendly chap called Jason takes my imaginary self up some imaginary stairs into an imaginary library. I sit down here, opening a book that leads me... no, no spoilers! I'll leave you curious enough to have a listen yourself.

At the beginning, he urges me to picture a wall or flat surface in the room I am in and "...watch as a door materialises slowly, as if emerging from a heavy fog..."

My internal monologue goes thus:

"A door, OK a door. Where shall I put it?  Quick now, he's moving on. Well the left side's no good, it's all window. And the other side, that's all wardrobe. So it has to be the foot of the bed... Hmmm not much room. I'd never get it open! Hurry UP Lizzie, he's got to the chair. Maybe it opens inwards. But how does it fit in the wall in the first place? There's the empty telly bracket, and the radiator... Maybe it's a very tiny door, like in Alice in Wonderland. I'll have to crouch! Oo, Peter Crouch. He's married to Abbey Clancy. I'll use them in my next [celeb] Magazine crossword... Oh blimey, I should have sent that off yesterday... and the [soap magazine] one. Darn..." by which time Jason has bounded up the stairs and into serenity, while I am left trying to squeeze through a gap in the radiator while fending off a tall footballer, his Scouse WAG, several unmet deadlines, and an angry mob of customers.

*sigh*

Of course, it's like anything else in life - you have to practise to become expert. I can hear you wondering what the point is. I mean, it sounds like a load of festering badger bollocks doesn't it? If I am honest, even I have to suppress a snort of disdain on occasions. However, I have noticed a lot of it makes sense, and it has helped to get me through times where my head is going the same way as a Mars Attacks alien listening to Slim Whitman. So practise I will continue to do. 

4) Look After Myself. Parent Lizzie is often about these days. Sometimes to guide Child Lizzie in the right direction; most of the time to stand back in despair, sucking her teeth and sighing. She is unimpressed at the lack of discipline regarding arse-moving and chocolate-woofing. (And getting work done. And all the free stuff that people keep asking me to do, that I keep saying "yes" to, then wondering why I did.) She bites her lip when I go to bed with my laptop playing YouTube in my face, instead of a book. She clenches her fist when I ignore my morning alarms and roll out of bed to float through the day until I can return to it. She's the one screaming "come ON!!!" at me, when I see the sunshine and decide I would rather stay indoors.

So no, I'm not sure I'm giving number four everything I've got, though number five might dispute that.

3) Love. A tricky one. I'm certainly trying to dish it out, whenever I get the opportunities. Sometimes when I am with pals, my heart brims over with joy and I have to tell them how I feel. I know that this is the real me, because I've done it many times pre-tablets. In terms of chaps... sigh. Actually, I would like to take this opportunity to ask that all married/attached men STOP TEXTING vulnerable, single, lonely women in provocative ways. Yes, yes, your wife doesn't understand you, you live practically separate lives, haven't shared intimacy in months blah-di-bloody-blah. Stop it NOW. Apart from being totally unfair to me, and to your missuses, it's painting a rather shabby picture of how I'm expecting my future hubby/partner to behave. And if you are reading this, and you think you're the only one I'm referring to, you are not. Not by a long, dismal chalk...

This sort of behaviour has definitely contributed to the increase of my medication. The only blokes that are showing an interest in me are already the subject of long-term interest themselves. While I need some of what that they can offer, what is the point? It can't lead to anything other than tears and pain. I know this. Why don't they? I sit alone blubbing while they spend the evening in company; I go to bed clutching my teddy bear while they snuggle up to someone who loves them... yet they still have the nerve to play with my feelings? ENOUGH. Enough with the self pity. Time for action. Dating website sourced, sampled and signed up to. Lizzie is single and ready to mingle!

Well, not quite ready exactly, but certainly ready to throw her hat into the ring and see who fancies trying it for size. Not a lot, it would seem...

OK, I've only been enrolled a week, but already I've encountered similar to my last foray into this online lark. In fact, the same as I've encountered all my life: The chaps I like don't like me. I tried to be proactive, so I picked out a few matches and bravely messaged them. As with last time, no replies. Furthermore, the site tells you who looked at your profile. They all did. Virtual it may be, but it is exactly the same as standing alone at the Sixth Form Disco when the slow stuff comes on, catching the eye of every boy looking for a dance partner, only to have them walk right past you. (Some of them even used to sneer... man, I thought I was over that.) Of course then I looked at the chaps who messaged me. My boat was not even slightly raised by any of them. But they liked me - maybe I am not looking at them hard enough? I should reply because they got in touch, even though I don't remotely fancy any of them, right? This leads to settling for what is there, which is again my life's story, and has led me to my single status. I don't think I want to do that again.

Scrag End...

...or Rock Goddess?

It is a treacherous journey. Different to face-to-face dating, which I have never really done. I'm choosing a potential life mate the same way that I choose which yogurts I would like in my weekly shop - from a list of criteria. For example, I am not religious. While I embrace the fact that others are, and that each to their own, if I knew the choices of a person before I met them, I would probably avoid those who gave themselves the opposite label to me. So I'm ruling out what might otherwise be a great match. Or not, as that's quite an important thing for a couple to agree on. Smoking is a better example. A lifelong non-smoker, vehemently against the habit, couldn't have been happier when they introduced the ban (though it means wading through a cloud of faggy air to walk IN to anywhere nowadays...) - could I be happy with a smoker? Am I unnecessarily eliminating chaps who puff away, and thus rejecting potential chemistry? Anyone under six feet tall is getting the chop too. I'm never going to find anyone, am I? Probably less likely if they've found this blog. But screw it! To misquote, the Bible, Gloria Gaynor and Popeye all at once - I am what I am.

2) Music. Now we come to the cream: Much progress is being made, and it's having a ripple effect.

Firstly, I have joined a rock/pop band. Two extremely talented guitarists found me on JoinMyBand.com, prised me out of the house to go for an audition (I very nearly didn't) and suddenly I've opened up a door in my life I never knew existed. (In your FACE, Jason...) So once a week, I'm driving up the M5 and unleashing my inner Rock Goddess to whoever cares to listen, and bloody hell - I love it. The kind words have been tumbling in and I'm using them to build me a little podium of confidence which I'm standing on, wiggling my hips and belting out Steppenwolf in an unrestrained manner. Born To Be Wild? Could be...

(Wanna see the hips in action, along with the rest of the band? Next gig: Saturday May 23rd, 9pm at The Shutters Inn, Gotherington, Cheltenham. GL52 9EZ)

Nervous Lizzie before the audition. Born To Be Mild.

I've also hooked up with another couple of guitarists - just as talented, but more unplugged. They are refreshingly local, and we are working on things that are completely different to all the other stuff I'm doing. They're even encouraging me to whip my recorders out and don't wince too much when I hit the high notes on my descant. Again, I'm surprising me with the sounds that I can produce, and the things I have learned over the years that I never realised I knew. It's wonderful. My podium gets slightly stronger.

But I'm having to hang about for a bit for gigs, and I need money. So why wait? Why not go it alone as well? I have all the equipment, the music, the talent (apparently, though I wouldn't listen to me...) and the... the... I don't know what. (Je ne sais quoi?)

It's one of those things that I've been meaning to do for some time now, and joins the list of I Will Get Round To It One Day. Having dragged myself out for a walk on Thursday, I passed one of the many hostelries that dot my route, one that always advertises live music. An invisible force made me turn about, and before I knew it I was standing at the bar, proclaiming my services to a bemused barmaid. It was strange. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I had time to consider them, and they were all good. Exactly what I wanted to say. The bummer was she wasn't in charge, and the lady who was didn't want to come out to chat. I was told to leave my number, yet also drop her a message on FB. I left, slightly deflated, but still a bit gobsmacked at my actions. It's amazing what a bit of confidence can do.

I sent the message, but not before I spent a good morning creating myself a Facebook page to publicise Just Lizzie, the singer. You can see it here:

https://www.facebook.com/justlizziesinger

...and if you are a Facebook user, please "like" it, as it will help me to get seen. 

As for the landlady, she has yet to respond. But I also made a list of other potential locations, and there are many. When my ovaries have stopped wrestling, I shall visit in person, with business cards and smile, maybe even my guitar (free samples), and a total pretence that I enjoy selling myself to strangers. Hell, if I was good at that, I'd be pursuing a much more lucrative career. Cough. Which leads me neatly on to:

1) Work Hard. Let's face it, I'm broke. Not quite stony, but the tarmac is certainly wearing thin. It's not like I'm not doing stuff, o-ho no. I just don't seem to be getting paid for much of it. It's either voluntary things (see #3, Love, Dishing Out Of) or it's loss-leaders that are building the foundations for payment. If I don't pull my finger out to seek the spondoolicks, I'll soon find myself booted out of my rented home and onto said tarmac quicker than you can say "credit check".

In an further effort to boost professional confidence, I enrolled on a short piping skills course, led by the mother of an ex-pupil. My last encounter with the lady was fifteen-ish years ago, standing in the playground just before Christmas, while she had a (quite justified) go at me for something I'd done regarding her daughter. It was one of many incidents that had contributed to my eventual resignation from the profession. Though more than a decade had passed, I was nervous. Would she remember me? Yup. Not only that, but she remembered exactly what she'd been yelling about! The best thing was that we both thought it was hysterical. I love that something so traumatic can become a source of amusement so much later on. I'm halfway through the classes, and they are a hoot! My fellow pupils are entertaining and I'm learning loads. Not just about icing, but about business. About having the brass neck to charge what I need to charge for jobs, and not to care if I lose the job as a result.  

A brush with embroidery, on a biscuit

There you have it. Fighting, struggling, battling all the time. Getting closer to giving up, but focusing more on the fact that I'm also getting closer to achieving something. And surprising myself all the time - as with this blog entry, which I have squeezed out in three hours, without knowing I was going to.

If you've sat through all that, your arse will be as numb as mine is now. Why not lever yourself up and head to the kitchen for ginger bear, Ibuprofen, M&Ms, and an early night? That's what I'm going to do. Rock and ROLL. 

Will the feeling ever return to Lizzie's buttocks? Will Lizzie ever stop inappropriately mentioning body parts? Will anyone hire Just Lizzie for a gig? Is Lizzie ever going to get around to organising the fortieth birthday party she so desperately wants? Find out in next week/month/year's exciting installment...

Blue Monday

At last, I write. The weekend’s events have driven me to it.

What should have been a pleasant and practical couple of days turned into an outright blubfest. It’s embarrassing to cry in public, worse when you can’t stop yourself, and you just stand there helpless, wanting the ground to swallow you whole and spit you out into your bed at home. I alarmed so many of my lovely friends, which of course makes it worse.

I am back to where I was fourteen years ago, and it is horrible. However there are many differences between then and now, the main one being that I have fourteen years’ experience on myself, so as well as going through all this crud, I am watching and nodding sagely, and saying “ah yes, I remember that.”

Since 2001, I have:

• Put on four stone and lost six.
• Moved from Upton-upon-Severn (to Margate for the summer) to Horfield, then Little Stoke then Bailey’s Court then Bradley Stoke, then Woodford and now here.
• Had, and lost, two whole boyfriends.
• Had, and lost, one whole dose of cancer.
• Worked as a teacher, supply teacher, a part-time medical receptionist, a care home “event co-ordinator” – all of which I crashed and burned out of as I hadn’t shaken this off…
•  … and as a First Aid Trainer and a puzzle compiler/sub-editor, both of which I stopped after about six months as I hated being in a place at a prescribed time, trapped by what I had to do.
• Had five and a half years of really great counselling.
• Been a member of the same musical theatre group for nearly twelve years, plus another one, plus vocalist in several musical groups.
• Written and directed two whole pantomimes. Played numerous stage roles.
• Set up a business making biscuits and cakes, to supplement my income.

So yes, I am in a different place now… but the same place. Interesting. Some of these similarities are my situation, and some are a result of it:

• I’m living on my own…
• …a seemingly long way away from most of my pals. (It’s a long way, when leaving the house is an issue.)
• I have to do things that I don’t really want to do. (Slightly more complicated, but the same idea)
• I don’t have a TV. (I do have the internet, and many DVDs though.)
• I’m playing a fairy in a pantomime! (Coincidence? Or is it…?)
• I am single.
• I have nobody to throw my arms around and tell them I love them, and smother them with kisses…
• … other than my teddy bear, onto whom I cling nightly.
• I have no faith in my abilities.
• I have lost interest in things that interest me.
• I recoil from phonecalls, or my email inbox.
• My cooking is waning. I am eating ready meals for one again. And the odd takeaway. I’m being quite lax when it comes to food, and hitting the chocolate hard.
• I’m shopping. Nothing big, but little things will mount up. Preferably on the internet, so I don’t have to see other people.

And here are the differences, which are whoppers:

1)      My home is nicer. Look at it – it’s got more than two rooms! It’s got a second floor that I can actually live in! It’s a winner already. Swanky, not wanky.

2)      The area where I live. I’ve known it for years. It’s familiar, and I’m quite settled.

3)      Work. Approaching a decade of puzzle compiling. I might not be as starry-eyed as I was when I began, but I would be loath to do anything else. Freelance, self employment, creativity – it appears to be the way forward for me.

4)      I am not overweight. Oh, that makes so much difference, and I am determined not to slip back to that.

5)      Facebook didn't exist back then. FB is both a curse and a blessing together. Like a sprout wrapped in bacon.  

6)      I have so much more support this time. Not just that, but I know how to use it.

7)      Older and wiser. (Please insert your own hysterical laughter here) What I mean is - I know that I got better before, so I know I will do it again. Using all the above to help me, and most definitely not via idleness and stuffing my face.

What puzzles me is why I have fallen into this bucket of crap this time. OK, understandably my battle with Mr H has left my reservoirs drained. Then all the splitting up stuff didn't help. But I’m sure people go through much worse than this, and they manage. I have to accept that it’s my biology more than anything else. Just like our eye colours vary, so my bonce is different. Why is my bonce different??? Good god, I would give anything just to feel normal again. 

Through tears and despair I have been looking back across the years and recalling the events that led to my toddling off to the doc for assistance, and ditching the life that I was living at the time. I scrolled through my diary files from then and was shocked to read how much overlap there is. Should you be remotely interested (and all my head tells me is “of course not, who the hell would be?”) I might post them later. The past may be a country best left unexplored, but I still pop over for the occasional day trip.

Winston had his “black dog”. Mine is more like a charcoal sloth. An expanding charcoal sloth. It sits heavy on my shoulders, wraps itself around me and pounds on my chest. It can envelop me and knock me down. Then it crushes my head and exhales its foul breath through my ears, fogging my brain. I can’t think. I can’t move. I just want to sleep for a long, long time, waking up refreshed and ready for breakfast.

I neither expect nor want anyone to rescue me from this. I’ve sort of allowed that to be the case before, but it’s not worked out. This is my responsibility. By all means lob me a lifebelt to keep me afloat, but don’t reel it in. I need to swim to the shore by myself. 

With a Little Help from My Friends

Once again this weekend I was reminded of what wonderful friends I have. I am a very lucky girl. Somebody said to me “I really want to help you, but I don’t know what to do.” To be honest, I don’t know what you can do either, but here are my thoughts:

It’s lovely that you want to help me. It’s beyond lovely. I feel so bad for making you feel so helpless or even upset. And yet, just saying you want to help… well, it helps! The deal is that until I get my head – my head – sorted, I will struggle to do things. That isn’t to say I won’t do stuff. But some days it’s much more difficult, and the hardest part is often getting myself out of the house to do the thing in the first place. No career changes or lifestyle changes are required – believe it or not, I know what it is I want to do with my life. I just lack the mental cojones to implement the plan. It’s very frustrating!

I prefer to say nothing rather than bang on about how miserable I am. Who wants to hang around a misery guts? This will explain why I might be quiet, or in hiding more than usual. I don’t want to bring anyone down. I’ve never wanted that.

I still prefer not to have people “drop round”. Especially as it takes me a long time to get settled into stuff. (You might interrupt a crossword being compiled. How could you live with yourself?) Always text first. I’m also not great on the telephone, but better on emails and messages, though I may not always reply.

Love and understanding gets me through more than ever, though I may blub when it’s offered, for it seems to me that I am undeserving of it. When you make jokes to try to cheer me up, it makes me laugh and cry at the same time! Hugs are great, but may also lead to blubbage. Don't say you weren't warned. 

So to summarise: Smiles, hugs, normality, emails, kindness, patience. And tissues.

I took all the comforting words and actions from the weekend – particularly yesterday - and made them into bellows. Then I squeezed them like crazy over the dying embers that are my spirit. The resulting flicker made me feel capable enough to blog today, and I am hoping it will carry me through to tonight’s rehearsal. Who knows - If we keep on like this, I might get my flame back one day.

Will Lizzie make it to tonight’s rehearsal on time? Or at all? There is so much beauty in the world – when is Lizzie going to be able to start seeing it again? What is the doctor going to prescribe on Thursday? Tune in next time. There will be a next time. There is always a next time.  

Lizzie with an “i-e”, that’s me,

With a head full of ideas

And a heart full of love,

And a tongue that gets in the way sometimes.

With a cheeky smile,

And dancing feet,

And a voice that fills a room!

With a minimal waist,

(And minimum breasts),

And legs that make me sad.

With a soul untouched,

And lips unkissed,

And arms that hold myself.

Lizzie with an “i-e”, that’s me.

With a head full of fog,

And a heart full of pain,

And no idea when I’ll be Lizzie again

With a belly full of nerves,

And eyes full of tears,

And a chest that aches every day.

With hands full of chores,

And an immobile arse,

And a gutful of this.

With typing fingers,

And a mouth full of chocolate,

And a brain supplemented by whatever it takes.

Lizzie with an “i-e”, that’s me.

With a head full of hope,

And a heart full of hope,

And a spirit that will never, ever, ever give up.

Bearing Up

Well hello to you!

Now before you start, yes, I know I said Thursday. What I hadn’t accounted for was being ridiculously upset on said day and feeling lower than an ant’s trouser department, which made me not want to do anything, least of all blog. I’m still far from chipper, but in logging last night’s minor adventure for myself, I thought I might share it with you:

I’ve had two late nights in a row now. Wednesday night was extreme crying until at least 1am, so much so that my nose got all swollen, and I had to get out of bed to sort myself out and calm down before I could breathe properly. Last night I toddled up at 10.20pm, wanting the oblivion of sleep to wash away the pain of the day. The chap next door is in his eighties and quite deaf, so he does have his TV on a bit loud most of the time, and (respecting his age) I tolerate it. Yesterday he seemed to have cranked it up to eleven. There isn’t a room in the house that I can escape it! As I work when I feel like it, (late nights; weekends; late nights on weekends) it can be a distraction, but it’s generally over by bedtime. On this occasion it was blaring through the bedroom wall and I could not relax. I applied earplugs to no avail. Bits of foam wedged into each ear that vaguely block the noise, but make your internal workings all the louder are not conducive to sleep either. An hour later and there was no sign of movement nor decrease in volume, I began to think. He is usually quiet by now. Why hasn’t the sound stopped? Has he dozed off in front of the telly? Or worse…

Egged on by a mate I was texting who has an elderly parent in a similar situation, I levered myself away from the soft, warm duvet and put some day clothes over my ‘jamas. I tried to get a better idea of the situation by jamming my ear against the wall. Though loud, I couldn’t hear exactly what it was. It sounded incredibly dull, with lots of arguing. From my shower room, I got that it was BBC One, which means I had endured the news and then Question Time. The programme ended and another began. Now Millicent Martin bounced off my eardrums clearly, singing “That Was the Week That Was”, heralding not a cheerful retrospective but another boring debate, this time about This Week. I listened carefully – no movement. No change of channel. I was going to have to go outside.

Typically it was peeing down with rain and windier than a baked bean eaters’ convention. And me, all squashy and vulnerable. Not ideal conditions.

Make it stop!

I checked the front of his house – all was darkness. I went round the back of my house and onto the treacherously slippery decking, and yes, there was one light on in what I assume is his sitting room, though it could be the kitchen. I could also hear the TV through the double glazing. Back at the front, I noted that the outer door was slightly open. I let myself in and further noted that the bag of goodies I’d left on his mat earlier that day (when he’d not answered the door) had gone. This was a good sign. All the same, I needed to attract his attention now.

The problem was that I was worried - was I doing the right thing? If he had indeed fallen asleep (which I considered most likely), would he thank me for disturbing him? If it was more serious, well… was it my business? Was I being snoopy or over-sensitive? With the usual deluge of self-doubt pouring down, I executed two bouts of knocking and three of hammering, leaving a good couple of minutes between each to give him a chance to respond. I was aware of how late it was, and how I didn’t want to disturb anybody else either. All this held me back from really pounding on the glass.

With no response here, I decided to try the back. Back garden access on my street is made through the house itself. (Mine is an exception, with a gate at the side, but even then, you have to go down to the front of the house first, so it’s not that discreetly done.) For the second time, I skated about on the decking, now armed with a hastily-grabbed torch. I slid down the slimy steps, and onto my gravel for the first time in months. (Good grief, I need to mow that lawn...) I wouldn’t have been able to get to his back door had it not been for the gap in our adjoining fence. I had to take lots of deep breaths as by now I was going into Scaredy Lizzie mode, but I managed to brace myself enough to squeeze through and plop myself down into the strange garden. Because we’re all on a hill, the window of the room I assumed he was in was too high for me to knock on it, so I went up the stairs and hammered on yet another door.

There's A Light (Over at the Mutton Chap's Place)

It felt futile. I was probably just as far away as I had been at the front. By now it was past midnight, and here I was standing outside someone else’s home, exposed to the elements, unable to feel my fingers and very mindful of the fact that I was carrying a torch and making lots of noise. Would I catch some other apprehensive neighbour’s attention? Would I end up ruining a night’s sleep for someone else? And still the voices from the television droned on through the window. Was the man behind it asleep for the night, or for eternity?  It was all too much for me. I had been quite strong so far. Now I gave in, and had a good blub all the way back to the bottom of my stairs, where I plonked myself behind my telephone and dialled 101.

The non-emergency operator lady was lovely. I did my best Acting Lizzie voice, pushing the tears to the side for the time being. I explained the situation, seeking reassurance that I was doing the right thing. She said that I was, and that they could send someone round to do a welfare check on him. After taking details, that was how it was left. She’d call me with the outcome; I’d call her if anything changed. I sat on the bottom step, drained and tired. I was just wondering what I was going to do for the next sixty-minutes-maybe-longer of waiting when suddenly… could it be? Yes, I was sure… the debating voices were hushed. The volume had dropped.

I leapt to my feet and into my shower room, where, on pressing my ear to the chilly tiles it was confirmed. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to hear a neighbour coughing through the wall! Before I could dial 101 to relate my news, the phone rang and it was Non-Emergency Lady saying yes indeed, all was well. Apparently, she’d called him and he’d answered, saying he was all right, he’d just been relaxing. (Relaxing rather loudly, but I’ll let that go…) I said I’d be having words with him in the morning, some of which would be “Please can I have your phone number”!

So that was that. An unasked for, unrequired adventure that saw me finally turn the light out at 1.30am, feeling hollow and lonelier than ever. Of course I was riddled with self-doubt, hoping that I hadn’t angered him or anyone else, and still questioning if my actions hadn't been over-the-top. I will go round to see him and ask that he’s mindful of late-night TV loudness. More importantly, I will say that I was concerned, and I might be concerned in the future, and I hope he’s OK with that, because that appears to be what he's stuck with. Maybe we can put something in place should the situation occur again.

Seeking solace in Abbraccio's abbraccio

Many lonesome folk turn to animals for company. The stereotypical spinster is surrounded by cats. That seems somewhat of a cliché, and you know me - I avoid clichés like the plague. (Ha) I also avoid having to look after anything living. I can barely keep myself let alone anything else. Even my basil plants die horrible shrivelly deaths; shivering unwatered on a cold windowsill while I am out gallivanting. (Or in gallivanting - on the sofa with a rug over my legs. Rock and roll.) But yes, sometimes I need company so I have the next best thing to an animate object: an anthropomorphised inanimate one. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your paws together for Abbraccio.

The bear himself. Probably saying "What time do you call this then?" as I roll in at an unbearly hour.

If you parla Italiano, you will notice that his name translates as “cuddle”. (Sounds like “embrace” – see?) We bought him for Nonna (my Italian gran) after she said she’d never owned a ted in her whole eighty years, and we gave him to her on Christmas day 1993. She spent many of the following months in and out of hospital, and eventually passed away in July 1994. I still miss her. She was a wonderful lady.

Anyhow, we had to undertake the difficult job of emptying her flat. For some reason, I was there on my own, standing amid all her possessions, just as she had left them, knowing that soon we would be going through them and making decisions as to their futures. I felt her absence strongly. Looking around, I noticed the big, white bear we’d given her at the start of the year. I grabbed him and held onto him tightly. It turned out that he was excellent at that. So I christened him then and there, and became his new guardian.

He always hogs the selfies...

...but he gives great hug.

Our relationship hasn’t always been as intense as it is now, owing to the fact that I have had other, more human (no comments please) sub-duvet partners over the last couple of decades. The poor thing ended up being relegated to the attic room I sleep in when I visit my folks and remained there, uncuddled, for a very long time. Last year, I popped over to theirs to do some tidying and bringing back of stuff to fill my new abode. I was there on my own, standing amid all these possessions, feeling lost and needing comfort. Looking around, I noticed the big, white bear that I had abandoned years before. True, he was less white, more grey, but who isn’t after twenty years? I grabbed him and held onto him tightly. He came back home with me, on the passenger seat of my car and now (after a traumatic washing machine episode) is who I cling to at night when I need to be clung. He makes no demands on me (other than that can it be twenty more years until he has to go into that nasty, wet, spinny thing again) just lets me hold him and sometimes blub into his fur. He doesn’t contravene my tenancy agreement, I don’t have to remember feed him, and he doesn’t mind being ignored. (I hope.) If it makes me a loony then fine. I can bear it.

Now, I’d love to write in gushing prose about the fun I had performing with my band Bluestone at TMTG’s Twelfth Night Party, but I’m not in the right mindset for celebration, so I’ll leave that for now.

I was also going to write a bit about procrastination, but I’ll do that another time. Maybe. 

Will that ever get written? What does hearing Question Time through a wall do to a person's will to live? Will Abbraccio ever forgive Lizzie for the indignity of his post-wash drying position? And will Lizzie be strong enough to stop hiding away from the world and have a decent weekend? Tune in next week and all will probably not be revealed... 

NB The next Baked Bean Eaters' Convention will be held at twilight on March 21st. Gas masks optional. 

Opening the Silk Purse

Happy 2015 folks!

I hope that this morning brings minimal hangovers and maximum peace to you all. If you were wondering how I got on, here it is:

Before I posted the previous entry, I was pretty much tuckered out after a day of charity shop perusing and catching up with dear friends. Once done, I hauled my tired caboose out to purchase my luxury NYE feast, but to do something I had had my heart set on doing first:

When I moved about 8.5 months ago, it took me a while to get used to having houses all around me again, having practically lived in the middle of a field for the few years before. I’m not a nosy neighbour, but it’s always nice to see other people getting on with their lives, and I was soon drawn to the family whose back garden backs on to mine. I noticed the lady of the house first, as she was wearing a dress identical to one of my favourites. She’s often to be seen watering the garden or doing housework, and I use the presence of her line-hung washing to determine if it’s worth putting mine out. The dad bonces around as dads do, reminding me (from a distance) of Terry Alderton. There’s a teenage son whose antics with his father have had me smiling frequently – water balloon fights, teasing, even their ice bucket challenge (that I missed by seconds dammit). Best of all, there is Doggy. A brown and white spaniel, probably a little on the senior side, who sits outside wagging his or her tail, so happy about everything. They’ve kept me company and they never knew it. And yes, I know it all sounds a bit Alfred Hitchcock/Jimmy Stewart, but it’s not like I  sit there for hours with a pair of bins! It’s mainly when I’m doing my yoga DVD in the spare room. M’lud.

Anyhow, on my way to the supermarket, I took a detour, armed with a small bag of homemade goodies and a card. It was easy to spot their house, using the mirror image of what I was used to seeing. I rang the doorbell, and within seconds, wearing that very same dress that had caught my eye months before, was Washing Lady. She listened patiently while I explained and luckily for me, she thought it was brilliant! Her hubby was in too, so I met the pair of them with an air of awe - almost like I was encountering celebrities that I’d only ever read about. I learned names including that of Doggy (who is a she), and sat in the lounge that I’ve seen glimpses of through their conservatory. It turns out that they had also noticed me in the summer. Not because of my laundry or minor garden antics, but because they’d heard me singing For Your Eyes Only at the top of my lungs with the window open! I apologised. It appears that from that she’d decided the lady in the house opposite (lady?!) was probably “someone theatrical” and I didn’t need to be sorry, for she had enjoyed the music.

(Phew)

(Though I’ll need to be a little more careful about this sort of thing in future. My next-door neighbour might be hearing impaired, but everyone else isn’t. And anyway, I do Diamonds are Forever much more convincingly.)  

Having kicked off my evening by making some new friends, I was too late for Lidl that had closed ten minutes before I got to it. Luckily Tesco was open for another forty-five, so I dragged a mini-trolley around there, picking up what I needed. If you want to see other lonely single people, a supermarket just before closing on New Year’s Eve is definitely the place to go. They’re easy to spot – no wedding ring, basket not trolley, full of beer and a ready meal. Poor devils.

Only the Lonely are found in Tesco just before it closes. Or are they?

Not I! For I was powering through til the bitter end, without tears. Or if not, I was going to bed. Whatever I felt. And you know what? My decision to stay cheerful worked. It bloody worked! Happiness IS a choice.

Though tired and not hungry, I made myself a “pizza” (Toppings on roasted aubergine slices, for a healthier less yukky post-pizza feeling) and scoffed the lot. The only alcohol that I was involved with was the budget voddy that I use to help the bowl of my ice cream maker to freeze. Pud was home-churned vanilla with a blob of salted caramel sauce. Bliss. 

Gluten-free and gorgeous

Happy New Year to me!

Tonight was the night for Inception (not conception, thank goodness. Though practice might have been fun…) so I whacked it on my laptop. What a film! Much to my irritation, I began to get dozy around my usual bedtime, so I decided to pause the movie, turn the lights out and just nap. If I shook it off, I might manage more later on.

My phone woke me after thirty minutes, and I stayed put for a bit, riffling through my thoughts with my fairy-lit window providing the atmos. Alas, thought-riffling isn’t conducive to a blub-free evening, so I stopped. I’d come this far, I wasn’t going to give up. A swift brush of the ‘pegs brought me to my senses, and I armed myself with my guitar and had a warble under my new colour-changing light (a festive gift from Sis #1)

(Not my finest, but fun. The whole thing is on my FB page if you wanted to see how it ends. And yes, my chops are baggy and they prefer more flattering lighting than this!) 

At 11.50pm, it was perfectly natural to don my coat and boots and drive Jeremy just a little way out to a spot where I could see it all. (Or at least a little more than a bit, plus some of Wales.) I didn’t need my watch. I stood by a farm gate in the darkness, and saw the New Year arrive in multiple firework displays. The air was cool but not cold. I breathed it in and did something that I haven’t done for several NYEs – I smiled.

No numbness, but a flickering flame of hope and excitement, the one that will never die in me. (It just might be hard to locate sometimes.) I wished those closest to me a Happy New Year by name, out loud. I sent a message to Last Year’s Lizzie telling her not to despair; that better things are to come though she’d have to be strong to get to them. Then I did the old Five Things exercise, off the top of my head, and came up with this:

Five Things I am Going to Do in 2015:

1)      Work hard

2)      Look after myself

3)      Love

4)      Music

5)      Keep smiling

I had already done them in abundance this evening. Start as you mean to go on! Number five took me all the way back to my car, my house and my bed, eyes so dry that my contacts were beginning to object. And well they might – not a single tear all night, my friends. Not a single tear. 

Now don’t get excited, but I’m hoping to keep this up – smaller bites yet more frequently are, I’m assured, easier to digest. How about I meet you here next Thursday? It's a date.

Will Lizzie manage to keep her word? Will the neighbours be closing their blinds from now on? Will Saturday’s Twelfth Night Party be a resounding success? The space you need to watch is this one…