August

August 2nd and the grey clouds are a backdrop to a wind that belongs in October, or even April. I dream of Harry Smith Beach, in Barbados. I dream of the smell of the ocean. I dream of the smell of freshly barbecued fish on a Jetty in Mallorca. I dream of midnight feasts on a balcony in warm Rome. I dream of anywhere but the greylings of England. I do love this country, and my cottage and the surrounding forests and trees and sheep and cows that wander across the road. I do love my garden and the hydrangeas and lavender. I love the dying raspberries and the newly flowering strawberries, the rampant mint and the sage and rosemary. But sometimes, just sometimes I yearn for a change of scene.
I do have a vivid internal life, and enough chatter to keep me going, but sometimes, just sometimes I want a coffee on a veranda overlooking a bay where the sun just shines, and the grey clouds keep away.
I have another test on August 24th. Guys Hospital will be hosting me for three hours when I have to eat then have my hydrogen and methane tested. And so on until after lunch. I then have three more hospital appointments and hopefully – with any luck – one fine person might be able to tell me just what is going on. Because sooner or later I’m gonna scream so loudly that my buddies across the pond will take a long haul flight to help me out. I will scream soo, soo loudly that all my Scandinavian friends will put down their Gammel Dansk and get on a Viking boat. I will scream so,so, so loudly that everybody I know in Scotland will put down their Referendum notes and rush to Glasgow central and come on down to kick some arse. I’ll scream and stamp my foot so belligerently that my mate Silyve from Chatham will hot tail it down here, smash her way into the doctors surgery, without an appointment mind, poke the doc on her left shoulder and say ‘Ere, my mate’s been in agony for a year now and all you do is give her drugs and make appointments. Enuff already lady MAKE HER BETTER.’
My lovely Dr. M in Scotland has left the country and wont be contactable till mid September, so I’m on my own with my dark thoughts. Tomorrow I am driving to Clapham to have an hour with my Swedish acupuncturist who will try and make my legs pain free and tell me everything is going to be alright. I know I’m getting better but I want to be cured NOW. Not in two weeks time or next month. Now.
So there we have it August 2nd 2016, BHS is closing it’s doors and selling everything off at 70% discount, the staff are so demoralised as they stand around in empty sale-rooms flogging batteries at a quid a go. I hope that Green gets his foot stuck in a drain on one of his yachts, better still I wish him what I’ve got , that’ll teach him.