Disappointment seems to follow swiftly on the heels of disappointment in my little life. Closely followed by a swift kicking . Are you detecting a particular tone to this post? Sorry about that. It seems that despite suggestions from our social landlord that due to our circumstances we may be eligible for an early move it now seems that we are not and that by the time we do move there will be none of the new houses that are suitable and adaptable left.
I know I shouldn’t have
trusted the woman in the office gotten my hopes up but I just wanted something nice to look forward to.
In an attempt to cheer myself up I was playing old TV themes – it’s a game we used to like to play, our own version of Name That Tune, but during the course of this little interlude it emerges that John can no longer remember that Jason King drove a Jensen Interceptor. The only reason I have ever heard of a Jensen Interceptor is because John used to bang on and on
and on and on and …. about Jason bloody King and his Jensen bloody Interceptor. I feel bereft.
I have a lovely report from the lovely psychologist to tell us that actually after all the brain mashing John is still average with some particular difficulties thrown in for good measure but was highly superior before. I had actually worked that one out for myself but ho hum. There are whole chunks of our life and of his own that he can no-longer remember and every time I am confronted with it I feel gutted again. It is almost seven years since this nightmare began.
No, I haven’t gone over to the dark side, Ella is still my drug of choice on the musical front but I do seem to be surrounded by headbangers. In the jobs I mentioned below I have recently had to deal with a few individuals who need their heads banging together.
In addition to those who would benefit from a short, sharp block knock I have also encountered others that are inducing me to bang my own head hard against a brick wall in order to maintain the illusion of my own sanity.
In other news we may be moving from Urine Towers to Urban Decay Grove but it is semi-detached and has a garden (front and back); who cares about the crack den next door and the prostitute in the bus shelter?
In other other news I may have invented something brilliant but only if you are over 6 foot tall and own a caravan.