My mind is muddy, but my heart is heavy, does it show.

There's nothing nice about being ill.
When you live on your own and have nobody else around, being ill makes you feel even more crap than you already do.
Not because you want to be waited on, pampered or mothered.
Not because you want somebody asking how you're feeling fourteen different ways.
Not because you want verbal or physical sympathy.

You just want somebody there....
It makes all the difference.

I think I'm coming out the other side of it now. Not much comfort in that though, considering being ill has meant I've not been able to see The Girl this weekend. She called me "unclean".

Prior to falling ill, I'd finished a complete re-fit of somebody's bathroom. Originally I thought ten days. Finished in six. Not too bad considering I had to take out all his old suite units, take the old tiles off the wall, strip three walls down to bare brick, take up the old flooring, rip up the floorboards to re-pipe everything, dry-line and plaster the walls, rebuild the window-shelf, tile the walls and floor (which I had help with), build some boxing, change two radiators for towel-warmer rails and then re-fit a new suite. It might have been a day less had that nail not gone through his hot water pipe, but let's not mention that one!

House For Sale Watch : Day Thirty One.
Nothin' Happenin'.
I think it's time to get another Estate Agent signed up, much as it pains me to do so. I'm also gonna be dropping the price.

And through the open window, I think the singing went outside and floated up to tell all the stars not to hide.

A heartfelt hug is worth more than all the money in the world.

And sing me back to sleep. This is far more than I had bargained for.

It's quite a strange experience to be asked about your anal sex experiences within 20 minutes of meeting your partner's friends for the first time.
Fab Cafe was pretty good, although the music did spill over into the crap category at times, even though the girl who used to play Tracy Barlow in Coronation Street was the DJ. I was told she's pretty good. She isn't.
I was grateful to the girl who grabbed my arm and pointed me in the right direction whilst I was pushing my way into the girl's toilets. Not so grateful to the guy stood next to me whilst taking a piss, who let out an Earth rumbling fart that stunk the place out.
The evening couldn't have ended on a more random note, with a guy hanging onto the door window of our taxi, proclaiming that he only had a small arsehole and had a fear of it being stretched if he gets raped.

And do you feel scared - I do, but I wont stop and falter. And if we threw it all away, things can only get better.

I cut the end of my finger whilst doing a job for somebody earlier today.
Not just a 'nick' or a surface 'slice', a proper deep slash. It was one of those "ouch" moments, when you just know that you've cut yourself, but when you look at it, for the first....oh I dunno, five seconds, there's nothing apparent there. Then the blood starts seeping out.
Normally a plaster is sufficient, so I wrapped some toilet paper around it and made my way down the stairs to get to my first aid kit in the van outside. My first aid kit comprises of a box of assorted sized plasters and....well, that's it. By the time I'd reached the bottom of their stairs, there was so much blood, I had trouble trying to catch the dribbles and fathom out how to open their Deadlock system on the front door. Luckily, I managed to get outside before the blood spillage was more than I could handle, literally! I'm surprised one of their neighbour's didn't come running out to challenge me, screaming "murderer!", considering I had a look of panic on my face and was swiftly running up the path, away from their house with blood dripping from both hands by this time.
I need to re-stock my 'first aid kit', as not one, not two, but five plasters were required to stop said bleeding.

As is usually the case, later on in the day, when I get a chance to shower and slowly remove the plaster, it never looks as bad as it did. Although of course, by this time, the constant pumping of blood has ceased and what I'm left with is normally a cut that doesn't look too bad.
This particular cut looks pretty deep to me. I can do that thing, that if I gently squeeze the cut at each end, I can open and close it up, a bit like a mouth.

When I get slashed up like this, it always has a knock on effect on most things I do. Gripping things, turning things on and off, holding things, making thing....the list goes on....and it's only when you hurt yourself like this that you realise just how much of a pain in the arse it can be.
I'm struggling to type, because I generally only use two or three fingers and the injured one is apparently one of said fingers. And it's weird, because now I'm sat here struggling with it, thinking about it, I didn't realise I would have used my middle finger so much when I'm typing. But I do, because it's causing me grief.
Having crisps in my sandwich is probably not a wise idea and it also puts hold on any plans of a 'hand-shuffle' I might have had. I hope The Girl isn't gonna be too unhappy when she sees how 'incapable' it's made me become, especially as we're seeing each other this weekend. A swift healing and recovery is therefore needed, although luckily, I always have my other hand and that's got five perfectly working digits on it!

The ticker-tape tangles my feet, as I search for a face that I know.

Lately, I've spent a lot of time thinking about ideas and designs for another tattoo. This will be my forth. One on each of my upper arms and the third at the base of my back, which hurt the most.
When I was sketching out and designing them, it was always at significant times of my life. Times when I felt like I'd reached the end of a certain path, so it was time to cut through the trees and hedges to begin taking a different one. I guess I'm inking a map, signifying points of my life and committing them to a permanent state.
It feels like the 'right time' to start playing with some ideas.



House For Sale Watch : Day Thirteen.

Nothin' happenin'.

Ride it on out, like a bird in the sky way. Ride it on out, like you were a bird,

I think it's fair to assume that if I live for the next 30,40 or even 50 years, that within that time-frame, nobody is gonna have invented a time travel device.
If, during your own lifetime, time travel becomes a reality, then surely you would go back to somewhere in your own life, to drop some tips, give some hints, or at the very least let yourself know that things turn out cool.

I can't deny what I've become. I'm just emotionally undone. I can't deny, I can't be someone else.

House For Sale Watch : Day Seven.

Nothin' happenin'.

I think I over did it with the Weetabix last night. As a consequence, today I've been feeling very small, very insignificant, very insecure.
I've had to 'borrow' yet more money off my mum to pay for that stupid Home Information Pack that all house sellers have to have now.
It pains me to have to keep asking for help.
It makes me feel weak.

And I'm running low on coffee.

Four letter word just to get me along. It’s a difficulty and I’m biting on my tongue.

House For Sale Watch: Day Six

Nothin' happenin'.

I watched 10,000BC the other day. How the fuck does a movie like this get given the green-light?! Ok, so the studios are given a pitch from the script, but come on. It's just a load of old bollocks.
I bet the studios didn't hear a pitch like this; "Different 'tribes' of people, big elephants, a bit tiger, some walking, some more walking, a few things quietly borrowed from the script of Stargate The Movie, a crazy woman, a staff and the rest we'll just make up as we go along."

Sunday morning saw me overcome with an urge for Charles Hawtrey.
Monday morning saw me with an urge to sing "That's not my name" repeatedly, much to The Girl's annoyance. On both counts, actually.
Today has seen me mostly cleaning things out and tidying things up. And some Freecycling.

Life is a waterfall. We drink from the river, then we turn around and put up our walls.

House For Sale Watch: Day One
Nothing.

Feeling a bit mixed up.