F.A.O the British N.H.S, Sincerely yours...

It's taken a mighty long time to get to the point of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, to see the promised specialists in the field, but I feel helpless on my belly, being dragged along, clutching at this primitive rope that has been passed around so many others.

I tic. All day. From the minute I wake up until I can sleep. This has been the case since I was seven years of age and cannot remember a time when I have gone five minutes without a compulsive bout of movement or tension. I have ticced until nausea. I have ticced until my finger has dislocated. My insides tic. My outsides tic.

There is no blood test, biopsy, eye test or stethoscope that tests for it and as yet no neurological imaging. The diagnostic criteria is plain for anyone, and requires no verification when you know what's happening to you, when the people you know tell you it's happening.

I have been attending a number of lectures with the title of Stress Control. I have issues with stress, more accurately the anxiety response to average stress. In a room of 50 people, you optimistically settle down for the words of wisdom developed by a specialist team in a designated mental health facility.

Instead what follows is a half-baked PowerPoint presentation with all the merit of a 10 year-old's history project, with the spelling and grammar to embarrass a 10 year old, recited in a stuttering and most uninspiring tone by the textbook counselors - and if you think that's an advantage, it is not. I always wondered if these people realised just how hard it is to watch such a presentation, for those of us with compulsive, clinical and obsessive perfectionism.

To get to this point I had to start with a GP, who couldn't identify an uncommon but distinctive condition, despite having "a special interest in mental health"; who believed my condition was only identifiable by loud outbursts of profanities, despite the bona fide fact that only 10% of people with this condition exhibit compulsive swearing.

A substantial 4 months later, I find myself in the neurology unit of the largest hospital in the region. The doctor is late. Thankfully my partner's by my side, we're sat in a bustling corridor waiting area. He holds my hand which tries to thump my thigh repeatedly.

My reward for this is a neurologist that with distinct lack of luster suggests that this was something that was part of me and that I should try and accept it as it its in my life. That which he spoke of laughed maniacally in its hovel in the back of my brain, the significant remainder wanted to rather loudly explain how if I was happy with the way it was that I was unlikely to be sitting in front of him, desperate for a diagnosis to move forward with. I didn't get it. What I did get was another referral.

Another three months and another corridor chair and I'm sat in front of a friendly if wild-eyed psychologist. But he was already in my good books for shaking my hand, asking how I was, and waiting sincerely for a reply. He went on to give me one of the best quick tools in dealing with rushing, disruptive thoughts - I can go into this utterly simple tool in more detail if requested. I eventually felt at ease with this doctor, who was thoroughly himself. It was plain to see that he used intuition and experience, not a script, not complete bull. The first to make me feel like a human being.

I attended a follow-up visit with this individual which was positive, by this time I had just started a new job, which had made some dramatic improvements to life. He still allowed a referral to an outpatient mental health outreach centre for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. And you know the rest.

I was on a waiting list. Again. But no more. Please no more. I bid you adeu, N.H.S, for it's taken an absurd 18 months up to now and I still have not received formal treatment. Time to take back control, whatever the culture or creed of the psychological method.

Please could you tell me the diameter of this hula hoop? . . .

I had to share this positively beautiful question that was passed to our team at the office today. If a prospective hula-hoop buyer is that worried about the diameter, then I can't help but be concerned by their waistline...!

After I'd finished spluttering trying to keep my hysterics to a dull howl it got me looking for similar examples, a few of which I have compiled for you delectation:

Another that came into my own workplace was from a customer who had purchased a particular Union Jack cushion cover which had a design depicting an incorrect Union Jack. The email featured a wealth of information concerning the glorious history of the Union Flag, as well as all names it's otherwise known as, including a photo of their apparently offending cushion alongside a correct Union Flag.

What I wondered first was why with such a catalogue of information this customer clearly (yes CLEARLY) already possessed concerning our nation's flag why they had failed to spot it at the time of purchase?

Next I pondered just how cross they might become with me when I tell them that their cushion cover is inside out... Not, it turns out, just rather silent ;)

1.   A customer complained that the ham he’d purchased was unreasonably salty. The retailer said he would receive a full refund on the return of the remaining ham. The customer said this “would be impossible”. He’d managed to eat the remaining 480grams of offending ham.

2.   A television was returned because the picture was not clear. On being told he was required to protective film from the screen, the customer insisted that at no point during the sales process had he been told he’d be required to do this and insisted on a full refund, plus compensation for his wasted time.

3.   On return from a camping holiday on an approved “farm stay” site, a holiday maker requested a full refund stating their holiday had been ruined by the “intrusive noise of cows mooing.”

4.   A pet owner contacted a high-profile department store to complain that the dog coat purchased was not “fit for purpose”. When dressed in the dog coat she revealed her rabbit had “gnawed through the straps.”

5.   A pet shop refunded a customer after they complained the hamster recently purchased was “neither friendly nor cuddly.”

6.   A customer contacted their electricity provider complaining a power failure resulting from high winds caused them to miss a “vital episode” of Coronation Street.

Driving Miss Crazy...

It's a beautiful moment when you and the car next to you in traffic both have Blurred Lines on the radio with windows down, on a stunningly sunny day no less, share a subtle agreeing look, then turn it up! I was eventually rather glad for a green light though when the very friendly, but rather butch lass who was my single serving car neighbour started some quite impressive car jiving that I just couldn't match, but may have felt obligated to try... Very amusing flower but having just dislodged my loose and wiggly wing mirror AGAIN in a hit and run with a wheelie bin (no remorse by the way, weeks of it drifting about in the street it had it coming) I'm teetering on the edge of embarrassment oblivion where some spontaneous grooving will either go well and receive approval pulling me back away from the crumbly edge or (more likely) unceremoniously shove me in. I am SO not taking that risk.

This is a pleasantly spontaneous and uplifting moment in the years we spend behind the wheel in your lifetime, a moment that breaks up the strict routine you impose on yourself while driving - and fair enough, it keeps us safe, it keeps us consistent. Skill of driving aside, it got me thinking that car etiquette is a curious thing. You know, when you let people in, when you don't, how you say "thanks!" or how you express your displeasure... 

Now, I'm the furthest thing from a vulgar gesturer, flicking the bird, the V's or whatever, but the other week I did want for some gesture to convey a sense of... "Please, just wait your damn turn!" A car that joined the motorway (or freeway for you across the puddle) came up both behind a slower car and alongside me as I passed said slower car. This fine example of ape-kind hoofed it down the ramp, up behind the poor flower in a Vauxhall Agila and wiggled in front of me through the gap. So I gave him a testy hoot, he made some sort of distasteful gesture to suggest that I should have pulled into the 3rd right lane to let him through at 85mph.

Well how silly of me, OF COURSE I should have let him through, how awful of me to even consider that Ms Agila and myself being already on the road ahead had any right of way over him. Hpw dare I let myself believe that people will wait their turn and not expect other drivers to violently swerve to the next lane to accommodate the lard-ass at such velocity. A least at the speed he was travelling, when he inevitably piles into something all the neck fat will have migrated so far back his neck will be sitting pretty.

Maybe it struck him that he didn't have nearly enough duct tape plastered over the 90's Mondeo, so must muster what's left of his dole together after the fags, the drugs and the seventeen kids (the likely order of priority) to purchase more tape before B&Q closes.

It was this moment after I sought a gesture that didn't exist, that as I eventually sauntered past him - due to foolish judgment of his next overtake - that I reverted to the simple but effective patronising head shake. He was vibrating in my peripheral vision and probably boiling over with a fat head wibbling about like poached eggs, but I was somewhat satisfied. I would have been more so if you could just let these sorts of people know in nothing necessarily more than a small gesture that manners are still important, it's what provides those harmonious little lifts in life and I think, it's those moments that give society that one step forward and it's the reckless, ignorant abandon of those little courtesies that take it three stomping steps back.

For example, something that I hate that my husbee-to-be does when he gets irritated behind someone in the car is to rev. And rev. And rev. I see why, it's the first pedal to hand and people just want to stomp on the nearest stompable item when cross, I get it. But this happens A LOT. And they would rarely hear. If they did, it would be intimidating, which is no better than the ignoramus above. All it is a waste of good petrol and an excuse to get wound up.

I like it when this happens: You indicate to move into the next lane in traffic, they make a gap, let you in, you wave and/or flash the hazards, then they wave. I like it when they wave back, it puts you on the same level. I'm already happy that they've let me in, in busy traffic, but when they wave it's like saying "That's ok" or "Don't mention it" or "You're welcome", which most of us would naturally reply with when someone verbally thanks you. You wouldn't often get someone saying thank you and the other person staying stony quiet. Sometimes they flash the lights after I have moved in and given my thanks, and unless it's accompanied by a wave, I'm sometimes not sure how to take it! Sometimes a flash can be annoyance... Maybe I worry too much, I don't go to that clinic for nothing...

If we drive with a smile ready in our pocket (I'm not saying it has to be plastered over your face the whole journey), will the roads look a much friendlier place? I'd like to think so.

Final Cremation: Night of the burning bread

We must have a toaster that’s possessed by the fiery torments of hell. Not only does it blast the poor twin slices of Kingsmill 50/50 with reckless abandon despite the dial cautiously hovering between two and 3 (well regarded as optimum toast) but the emergency toast ejector button is stubbornly out of action. Evil’s name is indeed Russell Hobbs.

It felt like a scene from Final Destination 107, as everything conspired against me to try to threaten my life... It was either going to be death by fire when it eventually bursts into flames; imminent hurling from acrid burnt toast fumes – well known as one of the worst stinks known to man, probably closely behind burning dog deposit; electrocution from rapid unplugging of the power cord in an attempt to halt the toaster’s reign of charring terror and finally, maybe most abhorrently, half cooked toast, with a soft, cold top that doesn't even melt your choice of spread-on substance. I just couldn't win.

Making toast is so fraught with disappointment that I rarely set foot once more unto the breach to produce it. I was only manning this gift from Beelzebub to feed my poor husband-to-be, who has a stomach bug which even the Northern counties will have picked up on by now with the fuss he’s making (and he’d be the first to admit that). The only thing going for toast that it is indeed so dull and uninspiring that it does appear to settle a queasy tum.

I purchased this toaster with its matching kettle and partner-in-crime for a quite frankly hideous sum compared to the prospect of buying the perfectly harmless and really quite approachable looking basic kettles and toasters in pure, innocent white, as opposed to these deceitful chrome-plated monstrosities, who never stay clean, picking up grease stains as if from the air throughout the night, they could quite legitimately be undertaking midnight frolicking in the greasy wok – giggling away like the gremlins from, well, Gremlins. The tall, lanky sidekick kettle takes inordinately long to boil water – it would be quicker to boil a cup of water sticking it under the bonnet of the car and taking it for a spin across the moors, dispersing a little kettle-induced frustration in the process.

Overreaction to a trivial matter? I think not. All I needed was my green tea, I’m obviously quite a calm, balanced person to enjoy the benefits of such a beverage (what a brilliant ruse it is!).

The question now is what to with this now condemned toaster? I’m a stickler for not wasting anything (no matter how Satanic) and prefer to recycle into something useful... for example, we’re doing up the garden... maybe the neat little trays could host some delightfully calming lavender watering it via the crumb tray, to make up for angst this machine has been responsible for. That’s karma for you!

And in the beginning...

The first post drags itself awkwardly out of the primordial goo, covered  in slime and aquatic appendages that will shrivel and drop off over time through the constant drive to evolve into a more well-adapted organism in this blog jungle, hoping for eyelids sooner rather than later...

It gazes around a world it has admired from afar beyond the bulrushes; one eye looks forward, one swivels back giving its dark and white-noise-ridden birthplace one last look before the eye whirls back to join the other. Having taken a succession of breaths in this new habitat without suffocating the post utters an approving squeaky croak and trundles forward, driven by instinct into the foliage.

The only thing you might wish to know about me for now is that I have been writing the odd longer entry on the go-to  platform of Facebook for a little while, but this avenue I think can properly accommodate the occasionally lengthy accounts that exit my mind like a freight train.

As any demi-writer might add to finish, I hope you enjoy the entries I have lining up. But I'll probably just end up talking about toasters.....