Spilt milk

Apparently there’s no point crying over it but to be honest I haven’t felt like doing much else since last Friday.  Now, probably, the way I’m mostly feeling is down to that annoying little visitor, you know the one that ruins your good knickers and turns you  me into a straw-brained, hay-haired scarecrow of a woman.

Or perhaps it’s to do with my visit to the Harbour Centre; this is not a place for the faint hearted and I’m not sure if it’s a place with any answers.  I wanted it to be a magic bullet and I suppose I have realised that there isn’t one: something I have known since atleast 1988.  You would think that that would be long enough for something to sink in.

Magic bullet or not, answers or not, it is now this long since I had a drink:

I don’t want to become a booze bore any more than I want to be, but fear I am, a stroke bore.  Maybe I just worry about being a bore?  Things have been a bit different in our house.  Apparently, according to the woman who did my assessment last week, I’m doing well: avoiding triggers, changing routines, trying to occupy my time differently. I know that, if I challenge the voices in my head, this is the case; it doesn’t stop those voices shouting loudly  at me about the wasted time, wasted life, wasted money.

How the hell do I do this forever?

In other slightly less bonkers news, trailer tenting will be resuming the weekend after next.

I would just like to wave at Him Up North and say how much I enjoyed his post this morning.


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