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I’m pretty sure all, or at least nearly all of us, have experienced the grim horror that is queuing on a call to a large organisation.

Currently I’m severely depressed, and I’m often required to call the NHS. I love and treasure the NHS. But under Tory and New Labour misrule, it’s being turned into an impersonal impenetrable block of granite.

I’ve just received a letter summarising a meeting I recently had with an NHS functionary. In this letter are numerous factual errors. Some trivial, some less so. They need correcting.

I’ve emailed about these concerns, and hope to hear back. But I’m not holding my breath.

What I would far prefer, and I’m sure I’m far from alone in this respect, is a brief conversation with an appropriate person, in a position to remedy the situation. What I most definitely DO NOT want is to waste precious time, energy, and – no doubt – money, listening to robots and Muzak. Only to get absolutely nowhere. Oh, except a little closer to my grave!

Ok, so I’ve spent all of today in bed.* In this day and age that’s like telling a C19th Mother Superior at the Convent you’ve just spent all day sucking Satan’s cock!

*so far…

My feelings on this must in part explain my out of character subscription (lapsed; now that’s in character!) to The Idler. A magazine whose title is more exciting than most of its content.

Anyway, I did actually do a few hours of horrid gruelling work. AKA trying to talk to people in the NHS system.

Now let me get this straight; I love the NHS. The fact it’s become a graveyard of impenetrable obsidian obelisks is entirely the fault of money-minded capitalists, be they Tory or even, alas, New Labour.

Off on one of my tanned-genitals, eh? Cannae be helped, Emma Freud.

But back on track: I estimate 3-4 hours of today was given over to fall-out from a letter, sent by the ‘proto-shrink’ (Clinical Nurse Specialist), who saw me in A&E at Peterborough hospital, on Monday.

Rather naively, as appears to be my way so often, I thought I was there for my own care. Reading the summary letter made me feel it was actually a Stasi fact-gathering exercise.

Depression can lead to paranoia. I know that. And maybe in part this is a case in point. But points are precisely my, er, point… here. And the notes the lady took during my venting confessional, which I’d imagined to be completely confidential, feel instead like exhibits A-Z of the prosecution!

What galls me most are two particular instances of miscommunication.

Once during the conversation she – Danielle Jenkins – ‘reiterated’ a point she thought I’d made, taking the polar opposite position to what I’d actually said. I corrected her ‘I thought you said… [the exact opposite of what I said!]’ statement during the interview. This is not mentioned in her summary.

Whilst by and large it’s a fairly complete rendering of the meeting, in which most of the mistakes (or just lack of clarity) are reasonably inconsequential, there is one particularly egregious error.

And so it is that she lists another thing she thinks I said, which once again is the absolute polar opposite of what I actually said. Once would be simply annoying. Twice points to crossed wires, Major Misunderstanding, etc.

All of this leads me to conclude that I need to record such verbal transactions for my own records, and later ‘proof’ of what really transpired, if needed.

At this point I feel drawn towards another apparent (it’s actually very connected) deviation. There have been times – not at the moment thankfully – when ‘conversations’ with my father have actually really just found me listening to an open-valved high-pressure torrent of depressive effluence.

Dad thinks, or thought at the time (at least so he would profess) that we’d had a conversation. I sometimes got to the end of my tether, and would draw his attention to this. Only to be told my recall was obviously faulty. This has been a theme over my whole life. Differing recollections in which mine is always de facto wrong.

This has not been helpful to the development of trust, in either myself or others. Nor indeed, in plain ol’ mental fortitude. When doubting your own mind is drummed into you over a lifetime. It has a debilitating effect.

Anyway, I’m absolutely adamant that in times past I’ve sat through very depressing monologues from a very depressed dad, in in almost complete silence. Sonny hbsinged occasionally notice, and ask if I was still there!

And, rather tragically, I now sometimes find myself playing out similar routines, in certain scenarios, such as this recent interview at A&E. As much as I love and admire my father, there are also less appealing sides to him – we’re all only human, after all – which I don’t wish to copy.

POSTSCRIPT

Well, I ran out of steam on this post. Much earlier in the day. It’s now much later. I did get up, numerous times, to do stuff; go to the loo, eat/drink, etc. The real basics! But in essence today was a day of bed-bound R&R, rest and recuperation. And boy have I needed it.

After two very good nights sleep at my sister’s (the second un-planned, at her suggestion), I wound up using a single zopiclone tablet last night, as prescribed by Dr Joyce, earlier in the week. I was only prescribed the one, on account of the danger of my ‘misusing’ them, if I had more!

Fortunately my mood has lifted considerably over the day. And esp’ so since my darling wife came home, and both ministered to me, and gave me a kick right square up in my ass! She insisted I complete several minor chores before I could have dinner.

I doubt I’d be here now, if it weren’t for Teresa. Thank you, sweet-heart, for standing by me and being a rock, and a source of consolation and common sense. Who loves ya, baby!

I’m currently watching snooker obsessively. Why? Because I’m undergoing the most hardcore bout of depression I’ve experienced in about six or more years.

Can snooker save my life? I don’t know, to be honest. But I’m just glad it exists. Why does it provide such succour? I really don’t know. Again, I’m just glad it does.

Today I’ve been bingeing on several mammoth snooker fests. One was the absolute classic, Higgins vs. Williams, at the 2018 World Championship. That was a real belter, no mistake. And watching it silenced the incessant self-destructive mental monologue that plagues me.

Depression and insomnia are an unhappily married couple. And the fuckers are visiting me daily and nightly. Snooker somehow helps screen out their incessant chatter.

Aaargh!!! It’s sooo g’damn cold. I’m in bed watching snooker, with the central-heating on, and a small fan heater in the room.

I’m still going through a tough patch, psychologically. Without giving too much away, I was in A&E at Peterborough Hospital Monday evening, after the local surgery called an ambulance ‘on me’.

I say ‘on me’, not for me, as I’d already agreed to go to the A&E dept at Peterborough. I didn’t want orvrequest an ambulance!

Teresa’s taken some time off work to be at home with me, and help me get through the present crisis. And I’ve just been trying to relax and take it easy. Step back and stay calm.

I love snooker. And I think I like it even more when I’m going through tough times, as I find it a real balm.

I’m having a really difficult spell right now. And snooker is oft-times seeing me through. Consequently I’m trawling the archives of YouTube and elsewhere for the best matches I can find.

This one’s a real doozy!

Oh how I love Bender! The booze, the cigars. The pimping. And his philosophy? ‘Kill all humans!’ Couldn’t have put it better myself.

My less than ideal state of mind of late has found me losing stuff more than normal. From phones or specs, to wallets and keys.

With numerous old iPhones laying around in various states of disrepair, I decided to recommission a couple.

My main phone now is an SE2020. I’ve just had a 6S and a 4 repaired. The 6S is to be my main backup (I’m typing this blog entry on it, whilst watching Trump vs. Allen on my SE2020!), and the 4? I might try and sell it, or just have it as a back up backup!

I might also use the 6S as my drum teaching MP3 player as it has double the memory capacity (64GB, as opposed to 32).

My local mobile repair place, Fonetek, did a good deal on all the repairs, essentially throwing in a battery replacement (I provided the battery itself) gratis.

Aaargh! Being a dribbling idiot adds a lorra lorra stress to life. And if you’re already stressed to atomisation point, dat ain’t good, bwoss!

I’m in a stressed out depression at present, on and off. And every time I lose or misplace something it becomes a calamitous panic that sends my PTSD style ‘Nam Vet’ type cortisone overload off the scale.

I lost my primary pair of testacles… er, spectacles, a few days ago. And then this morning I couldn’t find my secondary iPhone. And the latter I’d just been prepping for taking to Fonetek, to have a new battery and screen fitted.

In the end, after the stress panic subsided a little, I recalled that I’d been letting the iPhone battery drain off its charge, and it was stuck in alarm mode; the broken screen preventing me from turning the alarm off, I hid it under some pillows. Forgot. And then panicked!

Whilst looking for this iPhone (an oldish 6S), I found the lost specs, on the gravel drive of our front garden. Crushed, bent, dirty, and yet, remarkably, not actually broken. Whether they can be fixed or not, I don’t know.

Having found the iPhone, I’ve taken it to Fonetek, where they’re replacing both screen and battery (as well as a broken back on an even older iPhone 4). I’ll pick them up later. I’m hoping having the 6S as a backup to my SE2020 (or whatever my newest one is!?) might be helpful.

The older iPhone? Might sell it, if it’s worth anything. Or poss use it as an MP3 player for drum lessons? Hmmm!?

All of the stress associated with this sort of idiocy is o my compounded by the state of mess and clutter that totally dominates our domestic life. And that is a fundamental failing I need to address in real earnest: this Spring a Spring Clean is, quite possibly literally, a matter of life n’ death!