medical help

Blog,

       I am so sorry I missed your telephone communication  yesterday, I was out trudging but I picked up your message on the answer machine when I eventually got back home. Yes, of course you are correct. There are four weeks left which is 28 days and not the 30 which I so foolishly said. You don’t realise what affect your message had on me. When I heard it, I immediately went into relapse. Two days closer. Stress started. I also had to apologise to Seb. Both of us having problems with time. And I didn’t have a happy pill. I only was given the one. I had no option but to rush up to the Health Centre and seek out my Juju Lady. Luckily she was still there. She was treating a man who just wanted to dance but he had two left feet. She was searching the National Data Base to find a match for him, someone with two right feet. She was having a little difficulty. Her patient was size 10 and the sizes available were at sixes and sevens.  She didn’t really want to mix and match. She slotted me in and gave me a whole box of happy pills so I’m happy. From distressed to de-stressed. No problarmo Pierre. Cool.

This morning, being Tuesday, meant it was appointment time with my Psychopath. I did a steady trudge to clear my mind before I went to see him. We always begin the session in the same way. He gets me to lie down on his couch, he starts to swing a watch on its chain back and forth, back and forth in front of my eyes and it slowly induces sleep. After about half a dozen swings he nods off. I have to lie there like a pillock for fifteen minutes until he wakes. Then he sits down at his desk and writes a few notes. Thank you Sigmund. Because he is taking part in that nice Mr Camaroon’s Health Service reform, where the Service is financed from the bottom up, Mr. Sigmund writes out a cheque for me for attending.  I put all his cheques into the

Tiny Tim’s Children’s Centre and Newlife

Charities fund*. I am contemplating booking in with his son Clement, in future. It is dead certain that there will be more action. Last week for example, Sigmund stayed awake long enough to bang on about the deep psychopathic implications of my having red and yellow as the dominant colour background to my messages to you. He said it was a good sign. The red meant coming to terms with my frustrations, controlling my anger. The yellow showed calming. A sign of my unburdening myself, unlocking my inner feelings at the fruitlessness of my trudging, a sign of my coming to terms with my stress, how 26 miles will soon seem like a stroll in the park. He did not seem to think it funny when I asked if he meant the Yorkshire Dales National Park. I though it quite amusing myself. I had to titter. He went on and on about the subliminal meanings.  I told him the red and yellow was my trudging club colours! He seemed a little nonplussed. He said we should delve deeper ... so  a few more session on the couch; a few more quids for my children’s charities courtesy of that nice Mr Cameroon.

Time for my second session of the day, trudging, not couching - differential downhill trudges me thinks.

                                                                  Colin at minus 27.

*We now have raised about £800 plus (details soon) Well done Blog and friends,  keep the £1 with or without predictions coming.