An Air of Resignation.

It has been a strange few days and my mind is in a weird place. It has been a sense of utter resignation. My appeal has been postponed until 12th-I feel I have no chance. I also took the plunge and applied for a job in Cambridge. Yet I have the same feeling of resignation with that. I know I can do the job but why is it that these places think the only people who know anything about mental health are nurses, social workers and counsellors? It is bullshit and I have proven track record as an unqualified practitioner-the comments of my students speak for themselves.

Talking of my students I witnessed the ultimate outcome of my efforts yesterday. I am working with a truly lovely woman who is training to be a teacher. For 20 years or more she has battled depression. I had her from the moment I met her and her progress despite a few blips has been astonishing. But it was what she said yesterday that almost brought tears to my eyes. "I am proud of my children and proud of who I am". That is little short of a miracle for a woman whose self esteem was so low when I met her after all these years ravaged by a devastating depression. That put me in a good mood.

I had lunch with my former head of department yesterday which was also good. So I thought I would be heading into a weekend of good mood. But it didn't last. At 4.30 pm I spoke to a close colleague and discovered that a key plank of my pay appeal is being taken away from me. It would seem I will no longer be involved with supervising our mentors. Maybe that has sealed my fate, who knows?

After that today has not gone to plan. I had hoped to get the bus to St Albans, eat Moroccan food and meet a friend for some real ale. But I was too tired. So to plan B.

Several hours on I have a wonderful smelling beef rendang bubbling slowly away on the hub, I have listened to the whole of the Messiah and discovered the delights of Ernest Hemingway. "Death in the Afternoon" is of course a controversial book. I went to a bullfight in Granada in 1990. I don't recall any concern for the safety of the horses as Hemingway describes in detail in chapter 1 but I recall being mesmerised by the skill and courage of both bull and matador. I don't think I will ever go again.

Granada 1990, a life time away; a life changing experience and the happiest I have ever been. It was 2 months before my illness. For it was there that I met Kathryn. Or should I call her Rachel as I do in the book? So long ago.

I Heard a Voice.