Am turning corners all over the place here.

Largely thanks to you lovely lot…

I can now add to my list of Things That Help When You Are Mental: receiving glorious messages from other loonies around the world.

Yes, it seems many of us are keepers of the ol’ Black Dog, though mine is more of a Puce-Green Overly-Anxious Squirrel…

I do think it’s a bit bloody odd that I couldn’t find a way to tell my family and friends that I’m struggling, so shared it ON THE INTERNET instead.

Easier though to say it once out loud, rather than in a series of difficult chats/messages that invariably lead to the expression of items 1-4 on Monday’s list.

Chums have been marvellously creative in their responses…

One fine friend of old sent me just this explicit instruction: STAY AWAY FROM SCISSORS. This made me howl muchly as she knows that over the years whenever I feel distressy, I’m prone taking scissors not to my skin in a self-harmy way, but to my barnet. So keen am I to appear differently to myself, to feel different about myself, that it suddenly seems like a brill idea to hack off my hair. Until I’ve done it and realise I then look on the outside like the deranged loony I feel I am on the inside (which is a bit self-harmy actually). And also too jowly. And a smidge butch.

The hair remains intact today. Though I do quite like it in that throw-back pic… No. I must resist.

Later another fine friend simply sent me a thing on whatsapp. It was a video message from her six year-old girl, jumping up and down, her face all up in camera, squealing: I’VE GOT A VERRUCA ANNA! I’M GOING TO GET A SWIMMING SOCK! I’M GOING TO I’M GOING TO! I’M REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY EXCITED!!!


Aaaah, verruca joy is better than any grown-up coffee/chat…

Later another fine friend offered me a cream cake and a cuppa on his favourite garden step. I couldn’t quite face it, so he sent me a smashing pic of him devouring my vanilla slice for me.



And today it continues. This morning a mum I adore grabbed me in the playground and hugged me to life. She is tall, with excellent boobs. It was a most glorious cuddle.

Then, another lovely mum walked with me for a bit, stroking the scarfy/wrappy thing I was wearing to try and cover myself into invisibility. She is a therapist and knows to steer clear of items 1-4. Instead, we shared the disappointment of how such a useful, cosy, wrap-around garment ejects teeny fibres all over the place which get stuck in your mouth, up your nose and in your eyelashes…

Then, as I arrived home a bit weepy again, crawling back into bed after such a heavy bout of socialising, I get a voice message from a friend.

She’s getting off the bus on her way to work. She’s just read my latest blog and is a bit weepy about it. I can hear the city-noise in the background and imagine her trying to find a corner where nobody will see her eyes leaking. She’s had her own struggles. Anyway she’s calling to tell me a little story that she thinks might help a bit. I’ll share it in the hopes it might help you too…

Yesterday she was round at a mate’s house, loads of them with all their kids. They got into playing that game of riddles where you describe something in a few words and then ask, ‘what am I’?  Some of the riddles were clever, some were daft. The kid’s riddles were, of course, mostly utter shit. Then it was her daughter’s turn. She’s 9/10 years old and writes her own songs and is already a creative genius. I braced myself for some deeply moving words. This is what she said:

I go in HARD.

I come out SOFT.


What am I?

And that story, my fine friends, is MY kind of therapy.

Ps. What WAS she actually describing, do you think?

Thoughts please…