As I cwtched a sobbing little boy at the end of Doctor Who this evening, he looked up, tears streaming down his face (mingling with the type of snot only small children can produce) and said:

“But its so sad, Mummy.  The Doctor is always going to be on his own..”

All I remember from watching Doctor Who in the seventies is dodgy scenery and hiding behind the sofa when the Daleks came on.  Nothing as profound as seeing the real plot on which each story is based after only watching one series.

My child.  The genius.

Or, more likely.

My child.  The geek…

I’ve just written the following, most of a bottle of white wine down and having watched The Verve piss all over Jay-Z…

“Wherever you are on the site, whatever or whomever you are doing, stop and breath the air. I am so jealous… J x”

Glastonbury 2008, I salute you…

It’s been a funny old week.  Front pages, airplanes, falling over in the street and meeting Sinn Fein is not, even for me, run of the mill.

I spent an interesting 24 hours in Belfast at the beginning of the week, talking to people who work in the same industry and politicians.  I established that my colleagues and I have a lot in common, whilst the politicians were very different to any I had previously experienced.  I didn’t really get the chance to look around Belfast - something which I hope I will have the opportunity to rectify very soon.  It was straight from a very bumpy plane journey to a hotel and then to a very nice dinner and meeting a lot of new people - many of whom I struggle to understand.  Unlike the Southern Irish, with whom I have never had a problem, I found some of the accents I encountered much more troublesome.  However, as the wine flowed, it was amazing how much easier it became!

The group I was with were treated to an after-dinner speech from a journalist for the Irish Times, Gerry Moriarty.  He spoke movingly of his career in journalim, highlighting this through his encounters with the people and personalities we would all associate with “The Troubles”.  He was one of the first journalists at the scene as Lord Mountbatten and his party were brought ashore following the IRA bombing of their boat.  He was also present at the massacre at Milltown Cemetery, when the Loyalist Paramilitary Michael Stone, killed 3 people and left another 60 injured.  He spoke both passionately and sometimes, perhaps surprisingly, amusingly about the changes in the North of Ireland.  The speech gave many of us pause for thought.

However, what interested me more were the meetings we held with a number of MLA’s at the beautiful Stormont Estate the following day.  I am used to dealing with Members of the Welsh Assembly and MP’s, when the focus of each meeting is on some piece of policy or area of work they are carrying out.  The strange thing about my meetings in Belfast was the lack of discussion about policy and work being established on behalf of the MLA’s various constituencies.  Each and every politician, to a greater or lesser extent, concentrated their words on The Troubles and the continuing issues in process that the Sectarian divide in the country had left for its politicians to wade through.  Whilst their words were often interesting, it confirmed the suspicion I had begun to form the evening before, that many were looking back instead of forward.

We met, as a group, in the DUP room at Stormont.  A little over a year ago, no-one outside that party - and certainly no-one from the other side of the Sectarian divide would have been allowed in that room.  It made me wonder where that would have left me - as a confirmed Atheist.

The plane ride back was as bumpy as the one that I had endured on the way over - although without the interesting cross-wind skid on a rainy runway I’d endured as my welcome to Belfast.  I’m not a fan of flying - and use it as a means to an end only when absoloutely necessary.  This was a small plane and I almost kissed the tarmac when I arrived home again.

Other than the work, it’s been a quiet week, punctuated with much sleeping to make up for a 2.15am finish on Tuesday night.  I’ve got a quiet weekend, by the looks of things, mostly spent in front of the television, catching the sights and sounds of Glastonbury, without enduring the mud.  That will arrive on Monday, when I welcome My Dear Friend to my home, to perform a delousing exercise before he returns to Eire.  I spoke to him briefly last night and he has already declared himself “too old” for the Festival.  We’ll see how he feels by Monday.

The front page was of the National Newspaper on Monday - and a story that caused a bit of a stir, if you work in the NHS in Wales.  Oh, and the falling over?  The pavements in Belfast are very uneven.  It had nothing at all to do with either my heels or the two bottles of wine I’d drunk…

The Gene Puddle has oft been maligned in this blog. Don’t get me wrong, it’s like a sibling - OK for me to batter, but God help the outsider who tries to do the same. However, in the absence of this Blog over the last year or so, something strange has happened. The Gene Puddle has become famous. And, not in a bad way.

Sure, it was the “Wild West of Wales” in the early 1990’s, but come the Millennium (well, plus a few years) and its suddenly back as a place of fun and high-jinks, rather than derision. I even have colleagues from the Big Smoke asking whether, on their next visit to our lovely offices in sunny Cardiff, I can arrange a tour of my home town.

It’s all down to one programme - Gavin and Stacey. I was sceptical, at first, that any show set in the Gene Puddle would be able to reflect the humour of the place, but its managed it. I know some Staceys - multiple engagements and then rushing down the aisle at lightening speed (although they tended to be on the way to the delivery suite at the time). I know some Bryn’s. To be honest, there are one or two on my fathers side of the family. Never married. Never out of the closet. Never quite hitting the right note at the right time. Then, of course, there is Nessa. Contrary to some rumours, she wasn’t based on me. Even I haven’t got quite that much mouth - well, at least, not unless seriously provoked.

Its a strange world when someone rings you, very excited, shouting “Nessa’s in my booth”. That’s what comes of living in the same town all your life - you recognise the places, not only where you’ve worked, but where you’ve drunk, eaten and done all sorts of unmentionable things. This isn’t a bad thing, although a show like this does have its down sides, not least when the Leader of the Opposition jumps on the “Tidy” bandwagon.

So, today, I read that a “tourist trail” is to be established. The worrying part is the involvement of the local council. By the time it gets through countless committees and they all adjourn for a fact finding trip around Beverley Hills, or similar, the show will be long over and the town won’t have made a penny. If you do fancy coming down this way, you’re looking for Trinity Hill (Stacey’s House), the Colcot Arms (Essex Pub) and, of course, the Barry Island Promenade - right at the west end - the site occupied by Dave the Bus.

For other hints, leave a comment!

There has been a lot of publicity this year about the Glastonbury Festival, much of it not good.  There has been the Jay-Z row - the media expressing its belief that Glastonbury is a Festival inhabited by indie guitar bands made up of nice, white boys - and the fact that tickets didn’t sell out in 5.1 nano-seconds on the first day.  The scramble in previous years, which saw people with finger-strain from pressing the re-dial button never materialised.

If you ask me, its all about the registration process - too early, too much hassle.  You need to be able to pick up a ticket from a girl in a pub whose bought too many (face-price, of course) and not have to submit enough information, including the all important photo, to make the proposed ID Card look like a half-baked idea…  Oh, you didn’t ask me.  Sorry!  Yes, I know the ID Card thing is half-baked.  That’s for another day, though.  Moving on…
A few years ago there was only Glastonbury.  Other festivals paled into insignificance - yes they existed, but nothing was on the scale of Worthy Farm.  What’s changed in the psyche of the festival going public I’m not sure - after all, my last visit to any festival was five years ago now - but to me Glastonbury will always hold a particularly special place.  So, if I was going this year, which bands would have me trudging across the fields of mud?  With the listings now out, I think I can say that the Pyramid stage wouldn’t be my first port of call.

Los Campesinos, Massive Attack and Elbow all play the Other Stage on Saturday, which would reduce the amount of energy needed to wade through the mud.  As ever, however, it is the smaller stages that have the real wealth of talent - whether main-stream or off the wall.  I’m not sure where else you would find the following line-up:

• The Proclaimers
• Will Young
• The Wurzels

Yes, one stage, one night.  There’s also the Leftfield (or The Peoples Republic of Billy Bragg).  Always something to see there (and a conscience for a Festival built on ideals that are close to my heart - but now probably a little to 21st century to be able to say no to some of the larger multi-nationals).  Lost Vagueness has gone but its been replaced by Shangri-La.  I’ve got a feeling if you go into this area, you may never come out again.

So, next weekend, I’ll be sitting on my sofa, watching the BBC coverage.  If its raining I’ll have a smug smile on my face.  Good weather and I’ll be sobbing silently into my herbal tea.

I went out with an old work colleague the other night for a few drinks.  We hadn’t seen each other in over 5 years, we realised.  It had been far too long.  He contacted me earlier this year, after reading some of the blacker posts on this Blog.  It was a timely reminder not only of the extensive network of people I have come to know over the years, but also that they tend, in the main, to be incredibly lovely people.

During this little drinking session The Man Who Will Be God (or TMWWBG) told me a true story and said that when I was ready to get this Blog back up and running I should share it with the world.  So, here goes.

A mother and father allow their 7-year old son to watch South Park (I know, my mouth was gaping as well).  In one of the episodes a character goes onto a gameshow where he has to fill in the blanks in a word after being given certain clues.  The word displayed read “n*gg*r” and the clue given by the host was “a person that everyone hates”.  The character has a moment of indecision, knowing that there was a “bad word” that fitted the clue, but also having been told that he should never utter it.  The prize was £10,000.  As the countdown ticked to zero, he finally shouted “nigger”.  There was a stunned silence and then uproar within the gameshow audience, as the host quickly told the youngster that the word being sought was actually “nagger”.

Later, the 7-year old, as is there want, started to use the “bad word” in front of his mother.  She immediately reprimanded him, telling him firmly that it was the worst word that he could ever use.  With childish ignorance he retorted “But I thought that was cunt..”.

What this story reminded me was that sometimes we tell children certain things that, in all honesty, we believe to be true at the time.  In reality, however, the real world is full of shifts in construction and ethics.  It also is a place where something that you believe can be turned on its head following experience of the reality, rather than the theory, upon which it is based.  My last year has been filled with both.

A year ago, I had some very fixed views on certain sections of society, who, despite my liberal leanings I would have happily vilified (if not in a tabloid way) with little thought.  This has changed.  I also had complete confidence and belief in some of the tenants of the British way of life that have, in some fundamental ways, been rocked to their foundations.  Some have been rebuilt with an even stronger mix of hardcore and muck at there base, whilst others lay in ruins around me.  From some of these institutions I have experienced support, care and concern, whilst others have had no regard for either my safe-being or feelings.  Its been a strange, strange time.

I am smiling more.  The sun shines far more these days than it did, even six months ago.  I am sliding into a new routine with surprising ease and enjoying the smaller things in life.  I can now sheath a double duvet and no longer dread the evening routines of putting out bins and recycling.  The weeks fly by, the weekends even quicker.  There is great joy in spending time looking at the world though the eyes of an ever inquisitive four-year old.  Today, life is good.

It’s been a while.  To those of you who have been in touch, thank you.  To those of you who have leant a shoulder, this will never be forgotten.  To the rest.  Welcome back.

Another month or so has flown by and, despite being online more and more, I realise that updating the blog has rolled further down the action list.  I, like so many others, have been seduced by the relative ease and immediacy of Facebook and seem to spend an inordinate amount of time “hanging out” there - finding old friends and commenting, usually cynically, on their lives.  However, I do realise that there is no real value in this (despite the possibility of a real-life meet of people who should know better, considering they started in senior school 25 years ago).

Life carries on apace, with the general highs and lows that we all experience.  I am slowly finding it easier to go out, have fun and laugh - something that I thought, at certain points of 2007, would take much longer to achieve.  In fact, in so many ways, life is good at the moment.

There is a thrill to being single, but without my old armour (engagement ring, wedding ring and, latterly, eternity ring), the bar scene can be quite terrifying.  Those sad sorts (body odour, bad teeth, alcohol breath, etc, etc) who pray on women of a certain age who appear single can no longer be easily swatted away by raising a left hand.  Now, in order to avoid any trouble, more humourous and delicate methods have to be employed and, after a couple of less successful attempts at this, the England v Wales rugby a few weeks ago (plus a night in Cardiff that went on far too late and ended in a scummy bar) saw me more than rise to the challenge.  Why don’t people understand that, if I wanted their company, I would in some way OBVIOUSLY encourage it - and not turn my back on them?  Ah, the greater joys, I suppose.

In saying all this, my return to a virgin state continues (if that is possible with the use of tampons and substitutes designed for fun).  For someone who managed, despite appearances, not to be that lacking in company during my teenage years, the sensibilities of near middle-age make the whole “dating” scene quite the minefield.  Ultimately, I suppose, the problem is I don’t actually want a relationship.   I want the ability to have an orgasm without having to expose my life, or that of those around me, to harm, upset or any of the constituent problems new relationships can bring.

In saying this, random, one night stands, are, for me anyway, no longer an option.  I need the control of being able to say no further, without the inherent problems that can be raised with someone that you’ve picked up an hour or two earlier and could go psycho at any moment.  I know that we all have the right to make that judgement at any time.  However, I am not naive enough to believe that this doesn’t ever result in a very messy outcome (and not in a good way!).
So, my quest continues.  The media would have you believe that having no-strings sex (a fuck-buddy in their parlance) is now an established norm.  If this is the case, it certainly hasn’t flitered out of the metropolitan areas - or not that I can see, anyway (any Google Earth maps showing directions to such individuals should be left in the comments box).  Of course, this isn’t helped when most of your friends are in long-term relationships and not despairing singletons, like yourself, happy to indulge in the odd night after a few drinks, without worrying about who might find out.  Damn them, damn them all!!

Anyway, today is lunch with the parents followed by a birthday party for a four-year old.  My needs will, therefore, return to the back-burner, simmering gently but without the possibility of boiling over.

Well, here’s to the new year, then.  I hope, like mine, your holiday’s were happy ones, spent with those that you love and care about.

I must admit that I wasn’t looking forward to either Christmas or the prospect of a new year.  However, now it’s been and is here, I find myself somewhat more hopeful than I have been in some considerable time.  The holiday’s themselves were preceded with a bout of flu that left me shipwrecked at my parents house for three nights, but once they arrived I found great joy not only in William’s real excitement (the first year this has manifested) but also the company of the friends I have re-built the best relationships with over the last six months.  There were occasions (both Christmas night and New Year’s Eve amongst them) that were filled with great bouts of laughter and happiness, which I had not expected.

William received his longed for “Splashy the Whale” and let out bursts of giggles like only a 3 year-old can each time he was soaked from the arches of water that Mr Splashy directed when he touched his tongue.  Later that night, a group of people, who were no longer 3 and should really have known better, let out equally loud laughter as they continually managed to touch the tongue and tried to duck the inevitable water jets.  You may bring smoked salmon to a party, but that doesn’t make you refined!!

Sad news of the period was that Cosmo, my dear cat whose been with me for nearly 15 years, had to be put to sleep on New Year’s Day.  At some point, whilst I’d been out drinking Tequilla Slammers and Vodka, she’d had something that looked very much like a stroke.  She wasn’t in any pain, but couldn’t use her left side.  It was the only thing to be done and, despite the floods of tears, I know that I did the right thing.  So, I’m now cat-less for the first time in 15 years.  I’m not going to try and replace her, for the time being at least.  It’ll be much easier all ways around.

So, 2008.  I have no idea what the next year will bring.  However, I do know that I have people around me that care for me very much and that the black cloud has lifted just a little.  It was actually really nice to hear from someone from an age ago after he’d read my last, rather self-indulgent and very depressed, little bit on this blog.  Little things like that, as mad as it may seem, are enough to make me feel part of the human race again and that there is hope out there, somewhere.

To you - and yours - happy 2008.  May it bring you nothing but health, wealth and great happiness (and the ability to point me back to this, if it becomes necessary!).

When I was a teenager - probably from being about 15 years old - I suffered very badly with depression. I didn’t realise it, at the time. Realisation came - aged 17 - when I had, what was described then as, a nervous breakdown. I prefer to think of it as my brain actually shutting down for a short time, giving itself time to reboot. It seems somehow more mechanical that way and something that could be resolved and forgotten as my brain reloaded the vital software to continue my life.

Just prior to the actual episode, I was fairly manic (looking back), living on a cocktail of ProPlus, vodka, self-harming and guilt. I would perpetually corner myself in situations and relationships which were toxic. I’d live several lives - one for my parents, one for my friends in the Gene Puddle, one for my friends in Cardiff and yet another for friends in London. It was exhausting - but by fragmenting my world, I could somehow keep things under control. I could pretend I was the most together person in the entire world - even if that was in direct contradiction to the daily reality of prising myself from my mattress.

To my parents I was the A-grade student, studying hard and flying through all the hurdles towards a glittering university place and onwards to a satisfying career. To my friends in the Gene Puddle, I played mother, holding their hands in saintly virginity as they unburdened their woes onto me. To my friends in Cardiff I espoused knowledge of the local indie scene and alternative culture - being a left-wing, right-on, outsider in the middle of it all. To my friends in London, I was the organiser, the one who delivered - regardless of the arguments that raged around me.

I spent nights in perpetual loneliness in the loudest clubs, days surrounded by friends feeling distracted, ill-at-ease, hours in the company of my parents, playing a role, whilst wanting to shout, to scream, about the pain I actually felt inside. On the day I actually took an overdose and made a, in hindsight, somewhat feeble attempt to cut into my arm, I rang one person, spent 40 minutes not explaining what I was about to do and gave up. I felt like the world no longer needed me - my family, my friends, were better off without my presence.

I’ve continued my divided life as an adult - separating worlds and constantly juggling myself. It gave less time for introspection - and the black cloud that continued to haunt the times I had alone. The cloud of indecision, self-doubt, self-loathing and threat that I knew could engulf me at any time. One constant remained through the two ages - the self-harming.

Some people self-harm mentally (tick), some emotionally (double tick). Some abuse drugs (tick), some abuse alcohol (tick), some abuse sexual relationships (tick) and some, perhaps a smaller minority, abuse themselves, physically. The latter is about preparation and then performance. As a musician, trained in the classical style, this came as second nature.

First you practice. You gather your instruments and prepare them meticulously. A time-honoured tradition of removing the “safety” part of razors, to gain access to the blades contained within, collecting fragments of glass - sterilising them to reduce the risk of infection (lest you have to receive medical attention), finding pins, needles, compasses, in fact anything by which you can make the small incisions about your person that would (and I know still will), even temporarily, relieve the pounding within your head.

I don’t remember the first time I took a blade to my body. It, like many memories pre-breakdown, are confined to the dustbin of thoughts and experiences which swirl around within a blackened area of my brain - unreachable. I can only imagine that the preparation wasn’t as great, although, given the few scars that cloud the areas of my skin on daily view, I must have been fairly cognitive of the reaction that would be received. I do remember finding my “kit” again - securely placed underneath the draw in my bedside cabinet, alongside photos of friends that I felt then had driven me to the abuse - following my “recovery”. I destroyed the kit - but not the photographs. In those days of counselling and looking towards the future, this seemed somehow unnecessary.

Over the, nearly 20 intervening years from my first breakdown to today, I have reassembled a variety of kits. They mark progressions in my life - sometimes remaining unused, but often not. I heard, from a friend, about the way in which they harmed the soles of their feet, to avoid detection. I never went that far, but found that other areas in constant contact with clothing could also allow the pain to follow you around, throughout the day, without the danger of discovery through the discarded pads of gauze or plaster, or the blood on socks or shoes, where blood would only rarely be. The physical pain, which overtook the mental anguish of living this fragmented life on a foundation of ever increasing paranoia and guilt.

I’m lucky that these times have left me with few physical scars to haunt me, although those that remain (includng the patch on my left arm, just above my elbow, where, for several weeks I continually scratched away, leaving nothing but the very bottom layer of skin) are a constant reminder - not only of the harm I am capable of doing, but also the immediacy and joy of the “performance”, the release into a realm of physical pain.

The kit is there - in my bedroom - hidden behind tampax, vibrators, old bottles of perfume and the amassed detritus of 36 years of life. It’s somewhere that won’t be found by people, especially small people, in the house. I took it out again last night - which makes a row 6 nights, now - although put it back again unused. It’s like taking a viola bow from its case, tightening the strands of horse-hair that make it up and slowly, carefully, applying resin to every strand that will come into contact with your strings. I open the bag, remove all the items onto my bed, move them into a particular imagined order of use - starting small, moving to the more painful instruments - touch them, pick the first up, replace it. Then slowly, carefully, I put them away, tucking the bag back into its recess. I turn out the light and hope - hope like hell - that sleep will come quickly enough that I don’t pluck up the courage to take the bag back out and start the dress-rehearsal again.

The day I place the bow to the strings, I know, is the day that the world becomes an even blacker shade and the descent into the illness becomes more difficult to reverse.

I do understand that the things that have happened recently are not my fault, although, some of the pain that has been caused to those I love is, implicitly, my fault, as I was the one to introduce into their lives the source of all our anguish. Being told that the situation has wrecked the lives of those around you, those you most love, by implication is being told that you’re - however blamelessly - to blame.

Tomorrow I will again become a mother, a daughter, a professional, a friend and a stranger that you pass in the street. Tonight, I will practice again for the performance that, one day, will come - although the date and venue is yet to be fixed.

He’s done it!  I’m humbled by this guy - and can only hope that a few bottles of Dog next time he’s in this neck of the woods will help him to recover.  He’s also had some coverage in the local newspaper up his way.  Shame they didn’t link to the charity he’s done all this for - or provide a link to the website where you can make donations.

Perhaps a well-timed letter to the paper may rectify this before tomorrow’s edition goes to press….