What a day this was. Not a good one at all.

Out of the £300 second-hand recliner chair, on its last legs creaking and struggling to move, (exactly how I felt and was [Hehe]) and to the porcelain, the innards rumbling, knees, ankles, elbows, hip and fingers all being attacked with venom by Arthur Itis, with Anne Gyna letting me know that she was not pleased with going to and on the Nottingham Eye Wheel yesterday. The effects of Walking to the Doctors and the climb into and out of the Wheel/Eye had taken its toll and Anne Gyna was not happy with me at all.

I perched there, on the porcelain, battling with the tireless strenuous eventual movements of the morning, no bleeding from Little Inchy and only a few specks from Haemorrhoid Harry; The mind turned to depression, self-loathing and self-pity. Many many minutes of moroseness filled thoughts, filled the brain all unascertainable, unanswerable and without any validity or clarity… not pin-downable? My own personal imbroglio. Despair, dejection and despondency irresistibly overcame me. These feelings gave me little elbow-room or latitude for any common sense or logicality to be adopted or acquired.

Eventually, I dismounted the porcelain, without any solutions to my dilemma of sudden depression, or any idea how to solve it. Tried to perform the regular activities. I did the blood-pressure, pulse, temperature, weighed myself, took the medication and applied the creams and lotions – but like an automaton, no drive, interest, get-up-and-go or enthusiasm at all. This worries me.

I decided next to get the photographs I’d taken while on the Nottingham Wheel/Eye thingy yesterday, posted off to my Facebook page and put some on the TFZ pages. (Troll Free Zone).

My spirits seemed to raise a little while I was doing this and creating some graphics on CorelDraw and Paint and commented on the TFZer Site.

If you like, more photographicalisations are to be found here: Nottingham Eye/Wheel Pics

A sudden hunger arrived, and I got the nosh so early today.

The self-loathing depression had eased, but the lethargy, hebetude and apathy remained.

Yesterday’s planned jobs to do today did not materialise at all, and I was withing an hour of washing the pots – back into the depths of self-indulgent dwelling on one’s own sorrows or misfortunes. Pathetic! 

I literally settled and watched TV for hours, not even aware if what I was watching? No efforts to get up and do anything were possible, I was in the pits.

Not surprisingly, as I had done very little constructive thinking or any actual work done, when it came to bedtime, I couldn’t even nod off at all.

I got up and tried to read a book, but for some reason, it had lost its appeal to me. I put the TV on, that normally ensure I nod off, no, that failed, so I got the computer on again and fluffed about with Facebooking. Eventually, I got the head down very late.

I woke around 0245hrs and lay there in the £300 second-hand recliner, depressed, full of self-loathing, confused and considered the dreams, or rather nightmares, that were still largely in my brain, spinning around and fading fast. I had the pen and pad at the side of the chair, (unused for months of having dreams and not being able to recall any that I’d had).

Events from my youth came distortedly into the dream, happenings I’m ashamed of, but none of the few successes or happy times… Getting thrown into the Canal when I was about five was so real to me, although the timing of the incident was way out of sync with the reality, I woke up ringing with sweat.

Had to have a shower, so I shaved at the same time. Feeling a little foolish that the dream had got to me, I had a glass of spring water and got back down into the chair – I was off in seconds and the nightmares returned – I’m not even sure now that I didn’t dream having a shower and shave, but could smell the Lemon shower gel and was in some other pyjamas, having put the others in the laundry bag, so I must have?

The past times, some even pleasurable started in the dream. Many incidents from my Security Guard days where mused over I’m sure, my first romance and being bullied by the yobboes in Carrington mingles with so many odd bits interposing and all mixed up together from the long gone days, I even tried to shoot myself but could not find the 303 clip and bullets and recall I searched for them in this flat, the house I lived in 1949, the Bed Breakfast and Evening meal boarding house 1964, Nairobi in a blood wagon and other places I cannot recall clearly? Lynton Cox, befriended on Facebook, who came to visit me a couple of years ago and saved my sanity, was chasing me waving a yellow duster?

Not a good day.