I Won't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

People are expecting all manner of things from me today, but instead of tackling them I am pausing to write this down in the hope that it will help. Mainly me, but possibly any other poor sod that is having to wrestle similarly. Also, to inform and explain to anyone wondering why they haven’t heard back from me, or seen me about in places they might have expected.

My (landlady's) cosy cottage

Shoving boxes, a pause. 

So, there’s no time for apologising. I do that a LOT. You’ll have to take it as read. We all know it’s been a while since my last post etc etc. You may be pleased to know that I found me a place to live and the move was impressive. Lots of stuff, but tonnes of beautiful assistance to match it, making it a completely different experience to the one I’d been expecting. To quote Eliza Darcy neé Bennet: “In fact <it was> quite the opposite.” I’ve been ensconced in my cottage for nearly two months now, and I love it more every day. It turns out to be much more suitable for me than the old place was. All that fuss for nothing!! True, I haven’t quite finished unpacking and settling in yet, but who has? In between shoving boxes about and ordering white goods, life has had to go on. Life which involves a healthy dollop of puzzle compiling; only a pinch of cake baking as yet; a soupçon of ringing and a glut of writing, directing and appearing in a play for a drama group that I’ve not really worked with before, but who are so refreshing that it might be the start of a longer relationship.

Publicity still from Littleford's Got Talent. 

I’ve been doing tremendously well as it happens, enjoying the dying summer days with renewed vigour. To cope with the upheaval of changing address, I created New Lizzie – one who embraces the unfamiliar (a concept which is even more unfamiliar to Old Lizzie.) She’s walking a lot more. She’s not hanging around anyone who makes her feel bad about herself. She even re-joined Slimming World five weeks ago, to help regain control over the appalling eating habits she’s developed over the last few years. There’ll be more on this soon. I’m 6lb down so far, which would be more useful if it had come off places that need downsizing, rather than places that need every ounce they can get. Cough, boobies, cough.

So what the fudging fudge happened? I am still asking myself that as I cling to the inside of an increasingly steep and slippery drainpipe. It was all very sudden. One minute I’m having the time of my life, randomly bursting into laughter and feeling incredible; the next, there’s a horrifying darkness all around me and I can’t find a torch. In terms of events, nothing changed. OK, the performance is getting closer which is a stressful time, but that’s a sensation I am very much used to. There’s been no bad news, no work lost, no blokes to break my heart. I don’t understand.

It’s true that, at the start of last week, I was feeling so positive I decided to self-unmedicate again, down to the next level; going from 100mg sertraline to 50mg as I had a nasty brain fog that I assumed was the tablets. If I’m feeling OK, I thought, maybe the excess sertraline is making me hazy? When coming off antidepressants one has to be careful. The side effects are unpleasant, particularly the dizziness. If I ever forget to take my tablet, my body alerts me to the fact later that night, by creating a puddle of sweat then waking me up with it. So I was prepared for clammy nights and a spot of eyeball-spinning until everything settled down. It takes a few weeks for the effects of the drug to wear off, the same as it does when you are waiting for them to start working. Therefore, in conclusion m’lud, I don’t think that’s the reason for the drop. Suffice it to say though, I put myself back on 100mg quick smart.

The only other reason I can think of might be the time of year. If you’ve been living in England over the last few weeks, you will have experienced the delights of the summer fading to autumn. Oh autumn, you deceptive season! You set the countryside on fire with blazing colours; bright and beautiful. Then while we’re gawping in admiration and enjoying the occasional (and freakishly) warm day, we don’t notice you stealing the light and stirring up wind and rain and inclemency until it’s too late. Hibernation suddenly seems like a great idea. I’m not surprised they call it “fall”.

But why look for a reason? It’s blindingly obvious to me that this is an illness and, just like a migraine or an unpopular relative, it can turn up unannounced and completely wreck your plans.

When I drove back from the rehearsal last night, I was trying to explore my symptoms. I had been a mess throughout the evening, finding it hard to string a sentence together. Even the ones I had pre-written. I couldn’t remember songwords I had read from the screen a mere ten seconds previously. I blanked on names of people I have known (and seen regularly) for a couple of years; I was shaking, particularly my hands, which made turning pages and playing instruments a lot harder, and tears were never distant. How can I instil confidence in a cast, when I’m like this? How can I expect everyone to be off script, when I read from mine? But there is more: The anxiety is shocking, the worst I’ve ever had. I’m still a long way from full-blown panic attacks, though once or twice I have come close, usually when an overwhelming urge to leave has conflicted with a desire to stay, resulting in a sense of imprisonment. As I awake from slumbers (night, morning, post-prandial, post-post-prandial), I boot up slowly like an ancient laptop, and doom and fear and despondency come flooding back. They don’t go away. They’re on my shoulders as I type, united in a single entity: A slavering Demon in black, with tentacles that wrap around my neck and gently squeeze while it drools on my shoulder and breathes foul into my face, whispering “Useless. Hopeless. Pointless. Pathetic.” Over and over. Please, please bugger off. I have got a lot of living to do and I can’t do it when I keep slipping over on your dribble.

The fact that I had been feeling better might have made the chasm seem larger too. I’m angry that it was the best I’d been feeling for months… possibly years. This, foul Demon, is NOT acceptable.

I am fighting it with everything I have. You will notice that I am still showing up at places where I’m expected, albeit a chaos of hair, clothing, bags and words, but I am there. My number one priority is not to let anyone down. I hate that more than I hate reality TV shows, or litter. Or Disney, and that is really saying something! To let you down is to let me down. I am still managing to come up with the goods, albeit somewhat later than you wanted them, but you get them! I am still getting up in the mornings and trying so hard to keep going, because I choose not to stop. My sense of self-worth has taken a nose-dive, which explains the repeated apologies, for which I am so, so sorry. Paranoia, jealousy, fear all battle for supremacy. Skimming through Facebook without getting upset is impossible. I even have to brace myself when I check my emails! And the most mind-shaftingly annoying sensation is the return of the loneliness. I have resigned myself to being single, suspecting that I’m one of those people for whom that is the natural state. I accepted that quite comfortably as it makes sense and it doesn’t affect anyone other than me. Yet this week I have been aching for companionship, with a wailing and a beating of the chest that doesn’t do my shrinking cleavage any favours.

Being aware of the issue is important. Throughout all the crappiness, there’s a voice of reason. As if a fraction of me has stepped away to watch the rest of me fall apart. That fraction knows what will help, and it’s this:

🙂   Don’t take on new projects.

🙂   Get outside as much as possible, especially in daylight hours.

🙂   Spend time in company.

🙂   Go through with things, even though they terrify the bejesus out of you.

🙂   Drink lots of water and keep warm – it really makes a difference.

🙂   Ditto the healthy eating. It’s good for you and your body knows it.

🙂   Avoid your FB newsfeed for a bit.

🙂   You know yoga and meditation help. Do some! Don’t make excuses.

🙂   Be open about the situation, without banging on about it.

I mean honestly, I’ve got the play and then I’ll be involved with a pantomime. I absolutely have to find more work and honour it so I can continue to pay rent and be settled. I’m really getting into ringing, and that’s no good with nerves. Plus, I’m hosting a party/gig to celebrate passing the five-year cancer-free mark next month, and I haven’t really invited anyone to it yet. I am determined to go through with it, even if I have to pop the Demon in some sequins and bring him with me. I must keep going.

If you’re wondering what you can do, it’s not much I’m afraid. Or is it? Understanding is a massive undertaking. If you can’t do that, then tolerance is just as important. Kindness, though if that’s the way you want to play it, brace yourself for blubbing – I’m not very good at accepting that I’m worth it. Hugs are great, but not always appropriate. Plus you might find yourself being clung to more than you expected, and thus more blubbage. Don’t say you weren’t warned. At the very least, you could come and see the show. Now that would cheer me up, though you might not realise it through all the tears. Actually, you’ve already helped, see, by reading this. I’m not sure if I’ve reciprocated. I’ll have to owe you one. I’m also not sure I’ve helped me, but it’s good to get it all out of my head so there’s more room for the maelstrom of Everything Else. Thank you for your time.  And sorry again.

What next? When? Where? Will these generic questions ever be answered? Who knows? Oo, there’s another one. In the meantime, Lizzie is appearing in Littleford’s Got Talent, a play about a play about showing off, by Lizzie. (Oct 11^th – 14^th, CTK Social Club, Thornbury. For info, see www.octopus-thornbury.co.uk) 

Black Betty/Rama Lama Ding Dong

I feel so useless, so hopeless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lonely This Christmas

A brief-yet-witty dollop of self-pity for the third week in Advent. It’s like the kind of spot I used to get as a teenager: It’s there all the time, but one morning you wake up and it’s filled with yuck and bright green, for no discernible reason. The only way to stop it throbbing is by squeeeeeeezing it until its contents are splatted all over the bathroom. It hurts and it’s sore for a bit afterwards (and you really need to get some Windolene on that mirror) but it eases and heals and goes back to just being there. Well here I am, metaphorical tissue wrapped around my index fingers, hot flannel at the ready, prepared to press and purge…

I was walking back from <an as-yet-unrevealed thing that I do most Sunday mornings> (hmmm, is that a clue?). It’s a crisp Winter’s day, clear and fresh but not icy. There were blackbirds, sounding their territorial claims to each other in sweet melody. I noticed the reflection of the sky on the numerous puddles along the way, and droplets of water hanging from bare branches. 

Ice, ice. Baby.

There’s even some Forsythia blossom peeping prematurely out of my neighbours’ bush. (Titter ye not madam etc.) I should be happy and smiling, full of the joys of exercise and the season. So why was I crying?

Picture an old-fashioned balance, of the sort that represents Librans. On the one side is “Loneliness”. Countering that is “Keeping Busy Doing Stuff”. If that first side gets too full, I pile more into the second to make sure it’s always outweighing. I think I must have overloaded it, because suddenly everything’s fallen out and Loneliness dominates.

I’m not talking lonely as in “without company”. I cunningly surround myself with people as much as possible these days. Anybody will do, even you. (You’re welcome.) This however is the sort of solitude that it’s harder to relieve. I usually keep it all boxed up so I don’t feel it. I must have dropped my guard for a second, and the bastard’s popped the lid and is jumping up and down on my brain until I can catch it and bury it deep again. I am yearning for company of the non-platonic sort. To be touched with affection. To be kissed. Goodness me, I miss kissing! Holding hands. Looking into the eyes of someone I have feelings for, to find him looking back at me with the same passion and fondness. To love and be loved.

Just to be clear, I don’t mean… you know… *cough*… rumpy pumpy. If that was the problem, I’m sure it could be easily fixed with a weekend visit to a pub or club. I flatter myself, but not that much really as some chaps will take any old tat offered, just because it’s offered! There would probably be a lot of regrets involved too, almost as many as the amount of alcohol units I would need to consume to convince me that I could pull it off. (Seriously, no tittering. It was obvious what I meant.) Ahhh, I’ve never been one for that malarkey. I need to like and know a bloke pretty darn well before I let things get that far. I think that makes this even more difficult.

I don’t get much physical contact these days, as well you know. Platonic hugs are lovely, don’t get me wrong, though they too are thin on the ground. It’s a shame, as they help one’s bod release oxytocin – a hormone related to being in love. The problem here is me - I know that I generally want to cling hold of the recipient, which then makes me want to cry my heart out, so rather than causing fear or embarrassment in people I know well enough to embrace, I end up pushing them away before anything has a chance to be released. Sometimes I exercise total avoidance, which goes against the very fibre of my being.

In terms of finding a more permanent hormone producer, it’s a conflict. I am still trying to be happier in my single state… but if I met him, I might reconsider! What I mean is, I’m not actively looking. (It’ll be a sequin-free episode of Strictly before I go near a dating website again, I can tell you.) With the exception of a couple of chaps, I don’t think I have ever met anybody that would make me happy as much as I might make them happy, and I don’t know why that is. It’s not anyone’s fault. I can see that I’m a bit whingy today, and I won’t get started on how attractive I don’t feel; I know I’m hard work. Yet despite all that, I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of more than my fair share of interest. It’s a shame it’s never from anyone interesting. And don’t say “Oh Lizzie, you’re too picky.” I hate that. For heaven’s sake, should I just go off with the next chap that touches me inappropriately or makes pervy suggestions?? (Yes, it happens…) I choose food very carefully and my relationship with that lasts mere minutes. I’d invest slightly more time and concern into choosing a potential life sharer. Tch.

Why now? Well it’s this fudge-sucking time of year, isn’t it? As I’m shoved through each Christmas I get less and less enthusiastic. Last year I went down the cynical route, trying to make as much money as possible selling my wares. This year I care even less than that. No decorations, no cards. Few, if any gifts. I’m not being (any more) Grinchy (than usual) - peace on earth is the least minty of humbugs, and should be exercised all year round. (This is meat for another day’s sandwich. I’m not getting onto my high one-horse-open-sleigh now.) The point is that there’s something about the dark nights and days that really makes you want to snuggle up to someone beautiful and enjoy the time with them. All the stupid slushy films on TV and adverts showing couples and families force me do something that I avoid – they make me think about what I haven’t got instead of what I have. That’s not good for anyone. Even if you don’t watch the TV, it’s bloody everywhere. Lights, kids, commercialism, fake snow, more kids, trees, tinsel, cosiness, more excited kids, Santa, plans for Xmas day, FB statuses about decorations/wrapping/parties/more ridiculously excited kids. ARGH! I hate feeling like this. I don’t want it. With every waft of the season comes a fresh reminder: no-one loves you Lizzie. Pass the Quality Street.

To Grinch or not to Grinch? 

Don’t mind me. I’ve just caught a bit of loneliness today, that’s all. I don’t know why I want to publicise this. All it does is pee you off, or make you feel sorry for me, and I don’t want that either. Worse – it could convince (the thousands of) potential suitors out there that I’m a nutjob! (I am of course a nutjob, but I don’t want them to know that. Don’t tell them, will you? Shhhhhh.)

If you do one thing after reading this, it’s to go to that person who lights up your soul and share some cuddles and kisses with them, you lucky things, and feel gratitude in your heart. I shall be fine. This too will pass, it always does. I need to keep concentrating on all that Other Stuff. Keep moving, keep getting out, keep going. Throw myself whole-heartedly into everything, showing my love in different ways and sharing it with the world. If I do, I can saturate my brain with so many happy chemicals that it won’t notice the aching void and can go back to ignoring it. All will be as it should be once more. Silent night, hole-y night.  

NOT A NUTJOB

You’d better not cry, you’d better not pout: Lizzie-drawers is coming to town! Load up your sacks and prepare your chimney. No-one can fill a stocking like me, baby!     * Sigh*     With lines like that, is it any wonder that Lizzie is single? You won’t need to open the next gift-wrapped entry to find out…

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