Hello clouds, hello sky, to quote my old mentor Fotherington-Thomas (look it up, you might like it!).
Cardiff Drunk has not died, lost his computer, forgotten how to type or been indulging in testing the old hypothesis (a bollocks one in Cardiff Drunk's view) that that which does not kill me makes me stronger by hacking off body parts from the big toe up. Oh no.
But Cardiff Drunk has not been happy - and is not happy now that he appears to be typing about himself in the third person, that is the road to Michael Vaughan (sorry American readers, that's a cricket thing, look it up you won't understand it.)
Well, here I am then. What's up with you? I hope you're well and I'm about to shoot round all your blogs and say hello and leave comments and all that spaz. I must admit, I went into a bit of a down for a while there - the skin, the drink, the work, the dreaded depression. But, I seem to be coming out of it.
Again the catalysts are there and easy to see - Mrs CD going away for a week signalled a bit of a booze bonanza and my mood went right down, I turned in on myself and locked the doors and hid under the duvet waiting for the sky to fall down and listening to the background buzz of suicidal thoughts rise in intensity and volume. I still managed to make it into work though and to a doctor's appointment, I missed my voluntary work though, preferring a wasted afternoon in the pub, getting wasted.
Being alone on my birthday certainly played a part too, as did the visit of my parents the previous day. I feel such a let down to them, such a thrower-away of the opportunities they provided for me and such a liar - all the old conflict comes back and guilt starts to build a small but decently-sized bungalow in my psyche with planning permission for an extension at a future date.
Mrs CD's return has helped a great deal as has the unscheduled arrival of chilly early spring. I don't believe I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) but the weather of late did get me down. Cold and wet. I know anyone in the oft snowy wastes of North America will be sniggering at Britain's reaction to a few inches of the stuff, but for me it was the constantly grey skies over the dog shit streets. I'm told by locals that it almost never snows in Cardiff - a coastal city in a crater - but, boy can it rain. There were lights among the gloom though - the start of the Six Nations (again, apologies Americans, but we're onto rugby union now - the closest (particularly in the dissident but related League code) we in Britain have to your odd gridiron game) with Wales cruising to victory against a disgracefully poor Scottish side - drink was taken, but socially so, in a joyfully rocking O.
I even got asked my name by one of the bar-maids: "You tend to only know people by their drink love," she said, "What's your name?" So, I am no longer Stella SA Strongbow (do all those S's hide some hidden meaning?) I am now known by my given name.
The drinking ran away with itself a little and started to head for John O'Groats with a wild-eyed look in its eye and hotel reservations in Carlisle, and, I would probably have to say that today I am a dependent drinker - that is, I will feel physical withdrawal effects if I don't drink. Somehow, I don't mind though, because I won't drink tonight - I'm coming up again. Hoorah. I seem to have got on top of the eczema for the moment, I've completed the therapeutic day programme through the community addictions unit and the dreaded end of training and actual call taking looms ever closer but my confidence seems to have dusted itself off and looked at the rubber tree plant with disdain.
If you spent it, thank you for your time. I love you all, as I love all mankind - except the England rugby union team whose demise shall be mighty and terrible to behold come Saturday afternoon.
Iechyd da, bob Cymru!
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