On beanbags..if only LMS’d get off it!

by Pseud O'Nym

Yesterday afternoon it all seemed so bleak, well in my head anyway.

It just takes me unawares, my depression; it’s like a tsunami of misery, unpredictable and sudden, engulfing me, wave after wave seeming to compound my feelings of utter worthlessness. Sure there’s a pandemic. Sure people are dying. But you didn’t want to wake up from the coma in the first place so why should you care if you live or die? Yes, granted, in your head there’s a difference between wanting to die and wanting to be dead and that’s great and everything but…oh bollocks!

Marge is at the door insisting we go for a walk. I really don’t want to, it’s much more comforting being alone with these thoughts. If I got out I’ll have to pretend to something that I’m not feeling right now, I’ll have to make an effort, and I really don’t know if I can be fucking bothered, actually.

But its Marge and there are certain things in this world that just are, forces of nature that one can’t negotiate with; like the constancy of the tides, or the rising of the sun, one immutable fact is Marge’s confidence in the certainty of her own opinion. An unshakeable belief that one is simply being stubborn in not doing what she’s suggesting, but that soon they’ll tire of this nonsense, stop shilly-shallying about, and just do it. That, by the way, isn’t a bad thing and nor should it be misinterpreted as anything other than praise. When I tell her this and she throws it back at me, I say ‘But I’ve never claimed to be unfamiliar with those feelings.’

So out for a walk we went, in the sun and feeling a tad less miserable than I did earlier, remarking that if weren’t for the ever present threat of death bedevilling us, London without the planes, the pollution but with the clear blue sky and having the quiet only interrupted by birdsong, would be quite pleasant. We ended up at a small nature reserve, well what passes for a nature reserve in this part of South London, essentially a patch of land the size of maybe two football pitches, lots of greenery and tree’s that have been cut down but left in situ for wildlife.

The thing about peace and quiet is that it gives one time to think and if you happen to be thinking about someone else’s problems and not your own, well that’s a good thing, and at that time, in that place it was a very good thing indeed. It was like one of those old silent films, where a girl is tied to railway tracks and there’s an approaching train and then suddenly the train is diverted onto another track. Why am I thinking of the fantastic train sequence in Wallace and Gromits ‘The Wrong Trousers’? The point is that I felt better, although not as better as I did when I spoke to my partner after Marge had left me with my mood much improved.

We chatted for a bit, but what she wanted to tell me, I mean really wanted to tell was about a story was a in ‘The Guardian’

French researchers to test nicotine patches on coronavirus patients

Which said to me, as it would do to anyone with knowledge of films, was that life is imitating the Woody Allen comedy ‘Sleepers’ Yes, there was time when Woody Allen made some really funny films and his 1973 one ‘Sleepers’ is one. ‘Take the Money and Run’ being another. Anyway Allen plays a health food shop owner, who in a run of bad luck, goes into hospital, is cryogenically frozen and wakes up in 2173. One of the things he’s given to pacify him is a cigarette. Horrified by this, he’s told that now they realise that cigarettes and other things, which were considered bad in 1973, are in fact good for you.

This cheered me right up, if I ignored all the other stories on “The Guardians’ website, that is. It’s an unrelenting diet of misery now, it’s as if Fergal Keane and Orla Guerin were the editors now. Only the ‘The Guardian wouldn’t have editors, it’s too hierarchical, too them and us, too the old way of doing things. No, instead of editorial meetings attended by a few senior staff, they’d have a workers collective meeting, that’d last for hours and where everyone would sit on bean bags dinking organic fair-trade mung bean coffee and eating nettle and guilt falafels prepared by interns.

Writing of beanbags, my huge garden one arrived earlier and I told LMS she could play with it until I finished this. One more thing before then, last night I had eight hours uninterrupted sleep, and I hardly ever get that here. But I can hear LMS enjoying my beanbag. I’ll put a stop to that. Well I’ll try to…