Things I did when I was depressed: The Society wedding

There can be nothing worse than being in single in London and depressed. It’s bad enough being single, or at least that’s what I thought at the ripe old age of 28, but being depressed as well – no wonder all my friends thought I was a lesbian.

Not that I have anything against lesbians, I’m just not. Not that any Lesbian would have given me the come on anyway so even if I was a lesbian I would have still been single.

That’s the problem with being depressed you tend to be blind to opportunities. Perhaps I was given the come on but I wasn’t in the emotional place to notice interested boys let alone girls.

I desperately wanted to be “in lurve”, with a man you know in a meaningful relationship, marriage on the horizon, house in Fulham, bolt hole in the country, all mellow stone and wisteria, you get the picture.

That’s how I thought it should be, even though I never fitted that particular mould. For that I needed to be “sophisticated”, together, on the planet, normal. For that I needed to be in PR in Belgravia where all the “nice gels” go not as a lowly hack on a commercial property magazine stuck out in Woolwich. It’s no wonder by parents despaired of me ever getting a suitable boyfriend, let alone married.

There were times they tried to help me along. Some help was useful like getting the local Yorkshire builders down to renovate the flat I bought; I found out that they cost three times as much as my local Battersea builders would have done and on top of that I had to feed and water them as well as give up my bedroom. I slept on two chairs in the sitting room for a week. It was such a relief when they left!

Much of the help revolved round boys and trying to find me one. As the years passed I fear they got more and more desperate. And the lengths they went to more and more convoluted. I think they thought me far too independent and maybe felt that their help was not as appreciated as it should have been – I hate to say it but even if they had handed me one on a plate I wouldn’t have taken the bait.

Anyway there was one time they took me to a Society Wedding. He, the Groom, was in the Guards so frightfully, frightfully, glam and there were bound to be lot and lots of “rilly soopah” blokes for me to meet up with. They were so excited about it, especially my Mum, being that her own daughter had so far failed to provide the much needed glamour she craved despite living in London. How could I possibly tell my parents that this really wasn’t the best scenario for me?

I was excited by the prospect, don’t get me wrong. I mean all those fit young men in tight breeches, as I said I am not a lesbian.

But with depression you don’t think straight and you can be your own worst enemy. You are not exactly brimming with confidence either. So I get dolled up in my clumsy gawky way, which is difficult thing to do I can tell you for a plump person. I wore a, what was once,  very chic navy blue woollen shift dress (from Marks & Spencer) an enormous navy blue straw hat, and extremely high black court shoes trying to be so very Holly Golightly. So very muich Breakfast at Tiffany's. And off we went.

The service was fine; I sat at the back.

But the reception, in a grand and exclusive London Club, well, let’s say my depression took over and I landed up being very peculiar indeed.

Somewhere I had read or heard that if you close your eyes people won’t notice you. I know, silly. It’s the kind of thing really little kids do when playing hide and seek. They close their eyes and believe that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them. It’s cute, for them, not quite so cute for a 28-year old…

So there I was going up the grand oak staircase, heaving with hats, navy blue and cream in dots being “de rigeur” when I decided that in order to be not noticed it would be a good idea if on the half landing I turned my back on the crowd and stared at the panelling; shutting my eyes if you will.

Quite why I wished to be ignored is beyond my understanding now but then I am sure it was perfectly logical to my depressed little brain. I suspect it had a lot to do with oh-my-god-look-at-me-now-i-look-hideous-and-i-don’t-want-anyone-to-notice-me-because-if-they-do-I-will-just-die-of-shame.

There were a lot of people clambering up the staircase and I think I became mesmerised by the oak grain in the panelling because it was quite some time before I realised that I was alone save for the polite waiter in white gloves who had just brought me out of my reverie with a very discrete cough.

I turned flame red and noted that there were a number of concerned faces peering at me from the doorway to the grand ballroom where the reception was being held. I have no idea how long they had been staring at me but it was obvious that my presence was required.

I shot forward forgetting I was on a half landing and tripped up the stairs sending my hat flying and painfully scraping my shin bones. I was mercifully picked up by the waiter and brushed down, given my hat and asked my name. At first I thought he was trying to chat me up and seeing that he was really quite dishy I obliged and was just starting to be flirtatious and ask his name when I was thrust in the ballroom with him bellowing my name to all and sundry. He wasn’t a waiter, he was the master of ceremonies and I was obviously the last guest for whom everyone was waiting.

There are times as I said when depression makes you your own worst enemy.

Laughing too loudly I made some excuse about my make-up and thrust out my hand hoping that my faux pas would go unnoticed but you know how it is suddenly everything is silent for a moment and you feel everyone’s attention is on you. I was very loud, very loud at getting the Bride’s name wrong and equally loud in trying to laugh it off.

I stood there like a lemon while the bridegroom said he must get off with his bride to sit down. I muttered yes of course wanting to die there and then but he just looked at me exasperated. I shuffled uneasily not knowing what to do. And then he lent forward.

“Get off the dress.”

“What?”

“You are standing on my bride’s dress…”

I looked aghast at my feet and yes there they were on the Brides beautiful and clearly quite costly train.

I jumped off and was about to bend down to see if everything was alright when I was forcibly lifted up by the arm.

“Really it is quite all right why don’t you go and sit down now.”

I would have loved to I thought but I had no idea where I was meant to be! Luckily the Bride and Groom decided to get on with it and glided effortlessly to their table and everyone started to talk at once and I was able to scamper to the table chart to surreptitiously check where I was to be seated.

It was a good table. I was sat next to another depressive and contrary to expectation I really enjoyed myself especially after a few glasses of wine too many. It is quite scary how animated and loud two depressives can get as we shared symptoms and feelings. As we rattled on about Prozac and how awful it was to read the scare stories in the newspapers. We skirted round the bad stuff, but acknowledged to each other how difficult each other’s lives must be with no one to understand. And we got steadily more and more drunk forgetting in our nervousness that mixing alcohol with any medication is NOT a good thing at all. Especially with Prozac.

It acts like an accelerant, at least it did with me, and I was getting drunk really, really, quickly. Normally I would have had very little to drink but with the embarrassing standing-on-the-bride’s-dress episode and feeling completely at odds, I forgot. I wasn’t so drunk as to make a complete spectacle of myself but I did fall down and had to be helped into a taxi

That was the last time I remember my parents ever “helping” me to find a boyfriend…

Bringing up boys: learning how to appreciate one another

It’s been a week of learning.

A week of realisation.

A week of being bored to tears.

But all that is over. The Boy is back and already I have had tears and tantrums, screams of: “It’s not fair!” and “I’m telling!” closely followed by: “I hate you.”

But as soon as I suggested that perhaps Bog Boy should go off to his other Grandparents on his own for a week without The Boy there was an about turn. They hugged each other and looked at me reproachfully as if I was about to tear them from each other’s arms forever.

“So that’s a no then?” I said raising my eyebrow.

Bog Boy nodded slowly and emphatically as he chewed his bottom lip, presumably to prevent it from wobbling.

The Boy kissing the top of his brother’s head agreed. Then added soulfully: “I love him Mummy.”

That was ten minutes ago and now I am in my office listening to them shouting, fighting and hollering at each other from the back garden. I presume it is good natured for I have had no representations. Perhaps they really do appreciate each other a little more than they did now that they have been apart….

“MUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMM Boy’s got my football and he’s not giving it back!!!!!!”

….or perhaps not.

Bodies At The Bottom Of My Garden

WARNING: For those of a squeamish disposition look away now. The following post contains scenes of a graphic nature.

I am staring down the garden from the eerie that is my office on the first floor watching three bow shouldered gentlemen in black as they bob to each other in a little huddle. At first I don’t realise what they are doing and it takes a while for my mind to rattle through the permutations.

Razor sharp daggers are plunged into the ground or at least I think that is what they are doing but it is hard to distinguish through the rain. I see a bright white tuft flash and it dawns on me that my husband has been up to his little tricks again.

The gentlemen in black are merely cleaning up.

In my mind’s eye I swoop in on the little party at the bottom of the lawn and it seems as if I am watching from above. I am hovering over the gruesome sight. A dismembered body being torn apart, as gobbets of flesh are fought over, limbs flaccid and at odd angles. The soft belly spewing forth a pile of slick pink and purple tubes, and other scrofulous goo. The head has no eyes now; the teeth look barred in some sudden grimace of pain captured in the moment of death.

There is an intensity about the work the black gentlemen are doing, a rhythm in their movements, a strange kind of dance. The frenzy that was there moments ago has gone. This is a serious job which requires a dedicated concentration if it is to be done properly with no wastage.

I know that when I get down to the corpse later today all I will see is a head attached to four limbs by skin picked clean. I shall scoop it up and put it on the compost heap where in a few months all vestiges of its presence will vanish.

Cleaned away.

Neat and tidy.

The way nature intended. For back to the earth we all return eventually.

PS. For those concerned about bodies at the bottom of my garden it was that of a rabbit which my husband had shot from his bedroom window and failed to tell me about. He is beginning to do this with alarming regularity as he gets his eye in. We have a lot of rabbits and we also have a vegetable plot. I am afraid much as I appreciate the stories of peter Rabbit and the Flopsy Bunnies I am now as a veg plot owner firmly on the side of Mr McGregor. The black bow shouldered gentlemen are my beloved Rooks.

Euro Lottery Winner – was it you?

So? Was it was it you? Wot won the lottery? Well it wasn’t me. At least I don’t think so. I gave my £2 to a friend to buy and since I haven’t heard it can’t be me. Though, I will admit I am hoping, you know on the off chance that he hasn’t got up and checked yet…

Oh the things I would do!

First and foremost £6 million to Cystic Fibrosis Trust so they can carry on their good work straight away. Oh tell Charlie he need never work again, pay the school fees like forever and those of my nieces, nephews, god children…not that they’ll appreciate it. I mean all that money and sheesh all she did was pay for me to be incarcerated….I promise loves you’ll appreciate the gesture one day.

Set up a business rescuing ancient buildings, a string of farms doing things the old fashioned way with rare breeds, paying everything for everyone so no more money worries and just in case you think I am being far too altruistic

…an Aston Martin.

It would be the first thing I’d do: drop in on the Aston Martin showroom just off Piccadilly.

I used to pass it every day as I walked to work when I lived in London. Inside the privileged glossy showroom there’d be these beautiful pieces of design. Elegance. Such curves and so utterly wonderfully substantially British. At least they were then some 15 years ago.

Can you imagine going somewhere where you never dreamed you’d go and knowig that for the first time you can actually buy something you desire. That it is no longer a dream but a reality.

But which would it be the DB9 Vantage, the Volante? Would I search out the prettiest of them all the DB5? Like the one used in the James Bond Movie? Or what about a car as old as myself but perfectly formed? The a DB6 Mk1 Vantage – yours for only £95,000...

Oh the headiness! Would I be able to speak? Would I be struck dumb by my luck? Would I dare?

It would be such fun!

Brothers: All By Me Own…

All by me own that’s what I am and no Boy to play with. It’s boring. I have nothing to do.

So sayeth Bog Boy for the first time on his own with just me for company. Something he has longed for when his brother is about but which in reality is not half as fun as first thought.

He has entertained himself and when asked what he was doing in my bedroom hastily reassured me by saying “I’m not telling.”

Yes, well done Bog Boy, best not to incriminate oneself. I foresee an excellent career for him at the Bar or is that behind them?

I was asked this morning at breakfast how long The Boy would be away. Four more sleeps I said.

“That’s forever!” exclaimed Bog Boy. “Can I watch telly?”

I hadn’t the heart to say no, something I fear he was counting on for I don’t allow morning TV as a rule.

It doesn’t feel right without my eldest about. It certainly is quieter but not better. He’s staying up with his Grandparents at Boot Camp and from the telephone calls and e-mails being received seems to be having a whale of a time. Though last night when the two boys were talking on the telephone I overheard:

“I miss you and I love you!”

“I love you more and I miss you more!”

It warms the cockles of my heart that does, though as I glowed warm with happiness, I was already thinking about the squabbles and fights that were bound to happen within minutes of them being back together again. It will be a long two hour drive from Grantham on Friday morning….

Top 10 Tips For Better Customer Service - trust me I'm a customer!

OK now I am back on line I have a few rants that just need to burst forth for starters service, you know the one where the customer gets served, correctly, feels happy and comes back for more.

Well, where’s it gone?

I mean I don’t think I am asking too much when I say I need help in a shop.

"Excuse me could you possibly help?"

Met with blank stare.

"I’m so sorry. (Thinking that shop assistant can’t possibly have heard me) Please could you help me?"

"I ‘eard yuh." The shop assistant continues to stare at me as she chews her cud, sorry gum.

Slightly disconcerted as I watch the machinations of her mouth. "Right um do you have any semi skimmed milk?"

Shop assistant shifts from one foot to another and flops over the counter and waves her hand. "Over there."

I look over my shoulder in what I think is the right direction. And swing back to say that I have already been over there to find that she is dialling someone up on her mobile phone.

I start to speak but her hand goes up in my face.

"Hiya Shell, yeh it’s me what yer doin tonight….nah nothing much. It’s really quite at work, it’s soooooo boring."

I’d like to say this is totally made up and of course it doesn’t happen, but it’s true. It happened at my local Co-op.

You’d have thought with so many out of work and a recession and all, that people would be only too keen to help, only too keen to hang on to their customers but it is not the case. Everywhere you go there are horror stories about poor customer care. The mind boggles, what planet are these people from? They seem to be demotivated, moronic, plainly not interested and basically rude.

Or is it me? Am I getting to that stage in my life where I expect more than can possibly be given? Are my expectations too high? Come on I’m only 44, I’m not ancient. I’m far too young to be ranting like this. But don’t people realise that when you are dealing with customers you actually need to engage?

Here are my top ten tips for those dealing with customers in a shop.

1. Look smart – how you dress says a lot about you so pussy pelmets though great for parties ain’t quite the look on the frozen food aisles.
2. Be clean. Have some personal pride you know clean hair, clean hands and nails especially if you are looking after food.
3. Smile it really makes a difference in how you are treated.
4. Know your products/shop/service inside out – you don’t want to be thought of more stupid than you are.
5. Don’t gossip/answer texts/use your mobile during work – we’re paying you for a service not to listen to you mouthing off about your Ex.
6. Don’t look as if you think all customers are dumb –they may be thinking the exact same of you.
7. If you want respect give respect.
8. Don’t chew gum – you look moronic, it’s disgusting.
9. You will be surprised how well you will get treated if you yourself behave well towards your customers.
10. Remember the customer is always right especially to her face and no voicing your opinion about her to your mate at the back of the shop while she is still shopping it won’t win you any brownie points. Trust me. I’m a customer!

If suddenly there is an upward blip in the economy...

If suddenly thre is an upward blip in the economy over the next few weeks it's because I am back on-line. I noticed that there were a number of retailers in trouble over the last few weeks and I can only presume this sorry state of affairs is my fault, because I have been unable to shop. On-line that is.
I don't like shopping  as a general rule because I don't like to travel much and have the hassle of parking in ever smaller parking slots. I swear supermarkets and parking companies make them smaller and smaller each and every year so they can squeeze more and more in to make more money and of course to annoy their clients us the parking public. I say it is a false economy if you are a supermarket because an angry punter is less likely to return but I fear the parking compnaies couldn't give a toss unless that is one could say because of their lack of care your car was the one that got damaged, but I suppose they have a get out clause for that don't they? But I digress.
Shopping and the reasons I don't as a rule.
I am not good with carrying all my purchases. I get frustrated with all that packaging and having to drag my boys with me all over the place.
I spend most of my time forcing the little toads to sit still in one place and not to touch. But as soon as I say that they cannot sit still and they have to touch. There are loads of shops I don't visit as a rule because of them. Anywhere with anything breakable and anywhere with anything clean. Rules out most doesn't it.
So when I went off line my shopping drastically reduced and my tension rose in invesrse proportion. I mean I had to take the little rotters with me. Suffice to say after one minor foray I just stopped shopping and we have been living lean, as I like to say, on stuff in the freezer and the stuff we can pick. I did note that my husband began to spend more time away on trips than was usual or dare I say it necessary and the boy's teachers reported that they had hearty appetites at school....
Anyway I am happy to report everything is back to normal. It is safe for people to go back onto the A14 between Stowmarket and Bury St Edmunds as I am no longer to be seen on that road  with overlaoded car, out of control children and  wild eyed aggressive driving.  The economy will bounce back as I have an awful lot of shopping to do.
PS Just think if BT got it's act together how much more shopping could be done as according to statistics 14% of us are not  connected properly ( I fear it is much higher but until I get all the figures I will go with these) If each of us just spent £10 a week on-line that would be an extra £4,368,000,000 added to the economy.

Just kidding....

This little lot were caught out in a shower so they headed straight for the nearest shelter...a chicken hut!