Recently I had my first taste of working the night shift, and it seemed worthy of a mention. I’m no stranger to funny working hours, having dedicated much of my misspent youth to working in bars and nightclubs, and later having taken jobs with a rotating shift patterns. Getting home when the birds began to sing, and the light takes on that magical quality of not-quite-day-not-quite-night. I’m pretty well known for my boughts of insomnia, and so all in all, working a few nights seemed like a good way to fund the masterplan (More on that another time)
Talking
A few days ago I found myself in a conversation on Facebook. The topic was psychotherapy. It’s not exactly a big secret that I’ve had my fair share of therapy, I’m the first one to crack a joke ending “Oh shit, that’s another 2 years of trauma therapy, right there.” But I think day-to-day people don’t really realise that there is anything solid behind it. I shy away from writing about it, mostly because I’m pretty private about my life these days, something which in the past has not been respected, by my own doing as well as by others. Writing openly about life experiences on a blog, opens up an unpredictable dialogue about a sensitive subject, and that feels risky. I guess the reason I consider the last round of therapy I had to be such a massive success, is that I don’t find the need to bang on endlessly about it. It’s just not a day to day part of my life any more, and there are times when it is easy to forget just what a crazy thirteen years it has been. That said, it dawned on me that if anyone is thinking about having therapy, and what it was actually like, they might like to hear this.
Like this:
It’s not about Ched
I’m getting increasingly irate over the Ched Evans debate. If you are one of those people screaming your socks off about how this clearly wasn’t rape if one person was convicted and another not convicted, or because the victim was drunk, or because the victim went back to a hotel room with a guy, or because he was famous, try and apply a little of what we (the human beings of the planet) call an imagination. It’s not hard, just imagine if you went back to someone’s hotel room, had sex with a person, and woke up to find that you’d actually been attacked by his mate whilst you were out of your head and unable to say no.
How does that feel?
Like this:
Curve balls, bad odds and not standing for it
I just got back from the dentist. The aforementioned tooth has selfishly decided not to co-operate with root canal. I am therefore putting on my black silk hood and declaring it’s life over. Here is the story of curve balls and bad odds.
Surprise Party with added surprise
Encouraged by the cries of exasperation that came about following my last post, I have been inspired to write a series (roughly translated: until I get distracted again) about the ridiculous injuries I have known and loved. Some of my readership – including those that followed me reluctantly from my previous blog – may remember this little gem – The Boat Story. On a side note, this is not actually an attempt to cause my mother to have an apoplexy, so Mum, My Dear, you’d best stop reading here if you would like to retain a modicum of sanity. Everyone else, aside from those who can’t abide pictures of injuries, cut to the juice below.
Like this:
What have you done this time?
There’s this well used sentence within my friendship circle, one usually expressed with an unusual tone, a combination of frustration, amusement, and fear. It’s quite often uttered by my family, housemates and colleagues. That phrase is “What have you done this time, Jo?” And a case in point was Thursday evening when on sending out the following round robin text message to a selection of 10 victims friends in my phone book: ”Guess who got a blue light taxi to the John Radcliffe Hospital tonight?” at least 50% of replies were “What have you done this time Jo” A few mixed it up a little by adding an insult of their choice onto the end, “Fool”, “Plum” and “You Muppet” were a few of my favourites. Sit on the rug, boys and girls, it’s story time.
