Mission Creep.

Who would have thought a quick trip to get petrol could turn into such a mission? As I'm wont to do when needs be I set off for the 5 minute drive to Asda for petrol at lunch time. My intention was petrol and cakes before a swift return to the office. Nearly an hour later I made it back wondering what on earth was going on minus the cakes. Self paying unmanned petrol stations are fantastic....as long as the card readers work. When I got there a whole load of drivers simply shrugged their shoulders in bafflement as to why all of the pumps were malfunctioning.

Onward so I thought to the next garage. Unfortunately heading for the back exit to the car park a diversion took me and several other drivers down a blind alley. Why divert into a dead end? And try to turn round when it is backed up? Having finally extricated myself I went to the next filling station. Cash only yelled the man over a tannoy. I had no cash. So I had to raid the cashpoint there. The woman in front said beware, this machine eats cards. Frying pans and fire. So it was with huge relief it reluctantly gave me money, I bought my petrol and somewhat frustrated headed back. Apparently every card machine in Hatfield was down for some reason.

The challenging start did however give way to an okay day. After work tomorrow I am on the train to Cambridge, Jayne and Don Giovanni await. There could be an interlude tomorrow afternoon as although it seems perfectly clear I will never be given a management job I am firmly in command as no managers are available at all. So any crises will be mine to deal with. Nothing new there then.

And now, a touch a Masterchef, a couple of beers and an hour or so of tonight's NFL draft. My beloved Rams have the first overall pick and I'm calling Carson Wentz all the way.

See you in May when I'm back.

I Heard a Voice.

A Northerly Chill.

Winter decided to bite back today. A bitter wind from the north has made life decidedly chilly on this Sunday afternoon. The London Marathon is on although I've never had a particular interest in that. There is also a cup semi final being played at Wembley. No interest in that either. For me the usual quiet day of rest, cooking and opera is in full swing.

The pork chop last night was a revelation, the best I have cooked since leaving Kent behind and losing Mandy as much butcher. Today it is a chicken. I will stuff it will lemon and thyme then give it a couple of hours to cook. The last of my Albarino will be consumed with it.

As for the opera I have been blessed thrice over. Offenbach this morning, Verdi with my trip out in the car to a country pub. And now Mozart as I move ever closer to an evening before the day after. Yes the weekend has gone too quickly as ever. My intention today was to get up a little earlier and have more of Sunday to enjoy. Come 10 am I turned out for another half hour. Next I knew an hour and a half had gone by and my plan went awry.

What will next week bring? Another long slow burner I suspect. The last few weeks have taken an age to go by when I'm working, and flown by when I'm not. But with each passing day I get closer to my trip to Cambridge for Don Giovanni. Jayne is looking forward to it so much she got the wrong week and was expecting me yesterday. We must wait.

Wherever your week takes you , have a good one.

I Heard a Voice.

For Harry and St George.

I'm ashamed to say my knowledge of Shakespeare is limited. I discovered his work aged 13 courtesy of a brilliant and now dead teacher. King Lear at 13? Pretty extreme. My later ventures were against a background of an angry and emotionally volatile teenager where most things pissed me off. And with that my interest in Shakespeare waned.

Many years later I used to watch The Globe theatre being built on my walks from the psychiatric unit that formed a sort of home for 4 months. Yet I have never been there.

On this day, Shakespeare's birthday and St George's Day, it is to my shame that I do not know Henry V despite my hero worship as a child. Despite my ignorance I feel the need to honour this day as I am English. Our flag has become alarmingly linked to the far right idiot racists who have sadly come to a disgraceful prominence since 9/11. That fateful day. But our flag belongs to us not them.

I was contemplating roasting some beef today for the occasion but everyone is busy or away. So it was that I set forth this morning under threatening skies wondering what culinary adventures would mark my weekend. I settled on a simple pork chop today and chicken to roast tomorrow.

My travels afterwards took me to The Sun at Lemsford after an aborted trip to The Waggoners which was full of kids so nowhere to sit down. A sandwich and a beer, a nice plan on a Saturday afternoon.

I wish you all a splendid weekend and may it relax you all before the chaos starts again in Monday.

I Heard a Voice.

Smuggling Tales.

My love of the English pub will be self evident from simply reading a single week's worth of posts. So it was a great delight to me that the famous English foodies the Hairy Bikers are appearing in a new series on British pubs. A short gentle stroll through this institution has been a delight. Tonight they were looking at smuggling pubs in Cornwall.

Much of the English speaking world will have heard of Jamaica Inn the title of Daphne Du Maurier dark novel. Beka is a great fan of her works. I've never been to Bodmin Moor where the inn is situated. But being from Kent I'm know a few tales of smuggler's pubs.

The Bell Inn in Hythe played a huge part in my life. I call it the "pub at the bottom of the hill" in A Pillar of Impotence, many of my Kent friends met me there. Long before it was my local it was a smuggler's pub. They say the tunnels going through to the mill house behind still exist. In the 1960s the then landlord decided he wanted to open up the chimney to have an open fire. They did not expect to find the skeletons of two customs officers complete with decaying uniforms and identification bricked up in there. That is precisely what they found.

I love a pub with a good story. All along the coast are such places. Dymchurch down on Romney Marsh holds the annual "Day of Syn" after the smuggling local vicar of years ago. The Ship is at the centre of the day.

Far away from the sea as I am now there are still great stories to discover. The Horns at Datchworth is rumoured to be haunted by a highwayman who was killed by locals and his body to taken to the pub over night. A great party ensued and he has haunted the place ever since.

Such a shame this wonderful mark of the British is losing so many establishments every week. The smoking ban, high taxes and cheap loss making supermarket booze all take their toll. So long live the pub and enjoy them before they are gone.

I Heard a Voice.

Squally Showers and Heaving Sea.

This day in 2012 was cold, windy and wet. The sea outside Folkestone Harbour was churning away and the little fisherman's church on the top of the hill was buffeted by squally, swirling showers. With any sense on such a day we would have stayed indoors. Yet we were in that little church surrounded by people who knew us one way or another focusing on a wicker coffin. For that was the day of mum's funeral.

We are apart today. People I have spoken to cannot believe it has been 4 years. Time has marched on more rapidly than any of us imagined. But today we think and remember her.

Work wise there has been a lot of death in the last couple of weeks. We are busy trying to pick up the pieces. For me personally it has also been several months of death. That part of my life has abated a little.

I try to take it gently on those days that marked the end of her life. So a quiet evening of TV, a light supper and contemplation awaits. I'll come up for air hopefully restored later in the week.

I Heard a Voice.

Not a Good Start.

Why on earth am I dreaming about work at the weekend? In fact not just dreaming, a torment of nightmares tripping after one another from around 6 am. Just as I had given up on sleep a single further turn in did the trick. I slept until midday.

A glorious day awaits outside although it is not that warm. I have the West Ham Leicester game on TV, we just went 1-0 down. I have just put the pork in the oven seasoned with salt, pepper and thyme for a long slow roast. Then I think a jaunt in the country beckons. Quite fancy a trip out to The Rose and Crown at Tewin.

Thinking of tomorrow is not the best idea, I'm back to back from 10 am. After last week I hope it is a little easier. A long week is something I could do without.

On a much kinder note I had an e mail from my former student Nikki asking for my address to send a wedding invitation to. How kind is that? I think she overestimated what I did for her. Perhaps the greatest thing I did was to try to teach how to live with long term mental illness.

Dreams aside it has been an okay weekend. As ever it passed far too quickly but there we go. This term always goes so quickly then the long quiet months of summer. My 9th year there is nearly over. I never envisaged that when I caught the train up in June 2007 for an interview that changed my life. I wonder where the next twist of fate will take me. And when.

See you soon.

I Heard a Voice.

Three Weeks In.

It is hard to believe that the Boat Race took place three weeks ago. And with it the Pimm's season. Yet the lack of sun, abundance of heavy rain and the cold of the last couple of days have rather curtailed my guilty spring and summer consumption. A single glass is all I have managed. And none today either.

After a long week of loss, breakdown and near misses I was relieved to limp home yesterday still standing. I had a couple of possible plans, Borough Market or St Albans but with the rain and the exhaustion I stayed home. Made it out of bed fairly early but all I managed was a bit of TV, a little shopping and now back for more TV.

Of course I'm cooking as well. Trying out a sort of beef and pasta stew from Croatia featured in Rick Stein's most recent travels. It smells good so far. Inspector Morse is on but I only have half an eye on it.

What of tonight? A film maybe. Tomorrow brings roast pork, a walk, a little reading and my new Verdi opera Oberto.

Might come back on here tomorrow, will see how the mood takes me. Bye until next time.

I Heard a Voice.

Home and Away.

Avid followers of my blog will know well that a huge part of my focus is dedication to food. Food is what I do to switch off, to meet people, to entertain people and to strive to get better. I cook food from all over the world. I'm an okay amateur, nothing more. But I love it.

The food I first learned to cook was that of China. Tonight I returned to those roots as I sought out Ken Hom's The Taste of China and cooked cucumbers stir fried with pork. It was sublime. I thought it is the first time I have cooked that dish since I lived at Connaught Road in Folkestone from 2003-2005. Definitely do that again.

Yet for all my adventures in the world of food I'm increasingly seeking out local produce that is free range and supporting small producers. So I seek fruit from Kent and the east of England. Meat from Suffolk. Vegetables from Norfolk. I am but one person so I can do little to dent the decline of small producers and artisan shops. My town is poor for food, there is no butcher, no fruit and veg shop. There are 3 supermarkets. So I have little choice but if I'm careful I can do a little bit for the little people.

This weeks seems to have been very long. Last week was also. We're only at Wednesday. But I have made it in each day, my mood hasn't slumped and I have done a small amount of good. As evening draws in on the midweek point I have West Ham on in their final FA Cup tie at Upton Park, a sated appetite and a knowledge that I am getting there bit by bit.

I Heard a Voice.

As I Watch the Drops of Rain.

The rain rather took me by surprise today. It had dawned beautiful and sunny. My waking at the alarm was as relatively good as that time of the morning can be. And I had some plans.

Fast forward to the end of what seemed an eternal day the drizzle reminds me of the haunting Kathy's Song from Simon and Garfunkel's album Sounds of Silence and I'm taken back all those years to the fateful year 1990. That was the year my life spiralled out of control.

You don't need to worry about me as you read this. I'm not desperately low. I can see a way forward. I accept that it is a day of many. But that strange sense of apathy came back today. Strange thing is I don't know why. It has been a bits and pieces day. Neither good nor bad. Yet it has left me uneasy with memories of the girl I only name in public as Rachel. I almost looked her up today. And I swore I would never do that.

So on this wet evening I will keep things simple and ride it out. I don't expect to achieve much today. But there is always tomorrow.

I Heard a Voice.

Steroids, Cocaine and Testosterone.

At the grand age of 33 after many years of illness I finally moved out of my parents' house. Taking up residence in a beautiful but somewhat decaying Victorian house owned by my friend JB, he rented out rooms only to working people. What ensued was a glorious 2 years of party, fun and cooking. JB and I often ventured out into the bars by the beach, met many, consumed fine food at very good prices. He worked in the security business and many owed him favours. So we were always welcomed in the finest establishments. I also learned from him to spot the steroid freaks and the coke heads. There were plenty of both in the Kent of 2003 until I moved away in 2007.

When I got to the University I was somewhat surprised that they were only just waking up to the cocaine tidal wave that had been enveloping the young of this country for some years. I've never liked being around people of cocaine. People of steroids are dangerously volatile. So in as much as I can I avoid such places.

A third element can be added to that toxic mix, testosterone. What a vile combination all those are together. Sadly last night as I went out I was confronted by a whole pub full of coked up, steroid filled and testosterone stinking idiots brought out by the boxing on TV. I've never had an interest in boxing, half naked men punching the shit out of each other is not great. Yet it brought them all out. And with them young women dressed in their finest clothes doing a pretend imitation of upmarket hookers.

I didn't stay long and it spoiled what had been a rather nice day. The afternoon had been spent with my old friends Katherine and Antony catching up on our nearly 17 year acquaintance over Chinese food and a couple of beers.

Back at home in the early evening I watched It's a Wonderful Life for the first time. I had been given the DVD by a friend 3 Christmases ago which rather baffled me. Now I know why she gave it to me. On the dark days when I feel worthless that sedate old film may bring me back to my sense of worth and purpose again.

Spoilt night aside today is another day. I'm listening to Rossini's La Gazza Ladra which I bought in Foyles yesterday along with opera from Verdi and Britten. A gammon joint is out ready to be roasted. The paper is part read and a country pub beckons after the music. A lovely way to spend a Sunday.

I Heard a Voice.

At the Click of a Mouse.

The last time this happened I was flying on the crest of a manic wave that had been going on for months. In my second year at the University I was at the height of my power in my powerless position. The news came through the day of the staff Christmas party, the day before I was due to pick up my brand new car the following morning. 2009 seems an awfully long time ago now. I was younger, more energetic, enthusiastic, passionate and not yet disillusioned.

When the crash came at the click of a mouse on a copy and paste e mail it was a spectacular fall. The effects hit me for many weeks to come. But as least then I had had a chance to appear in person and do the best I could.

Today more than 6 years later a click of a mouse on a copy and paste e mail from someone I never met in that same building has led me to the same place. I will not be going back to Cambridge. Didn't even get an interview. In my cynical, jaded, and disillusioned view of the mental health world of 2016 I was expecting that rejection.

Have I crashed through the floor? No. But then again I only just opened the e mail. In my manic arrogance of the past I rated my ability as a mental health practitioner highly. Now I doubt it completely. I long for a mini mania but it has been several years since that happened. I wonder if it will ever happen again?

Once more I doubt my past and my story. Should I still ask myself did I make it up? It is still a game of a simple click of a mouse on a data recording system that decides the fate of many of us. Ill or just fucked up? Treatable or just the problem? That is what we do in my profession.

What gets lost in the that is the humanity. It is not easy living with mental illness. I may have got further than some but tonight it feels no achievement at all.

Where next? That is the question that haunts my life. I don't know the answer. Today I'm resigned to what will be and will mourn what might have been.

I Heard a Voice.

Reprising History

Ever wonder about your roots? Where are they? What can you remember? How far back? Who populated your history? Or what? Until the last month or so I have been fairly unfamiliar with the writings of The Sunday Times columnist India Knight. Following one of many shake ups that happen in the only paper I read on a weekly basis she has come to my attention. I like her so far.

Last Sunday she wrote a most poignant piece about having spent the first 9 years of her life in Brussels and how so much was brought back by the recent tragedy there. Wondering what became of the places and people who populated her life then. And the awful devastation that will forever change that city.

I have never been through anything as life shattering as a terrorist attack. But her piece did make me think of my past. For although the town of Cambridge didn't come into my life until the very same age India left Brussels, it has left the most indelible print on my mind.

During the darkness of my madness the shrinks cautioned against going back. All these years later my friend Gary still feels I'm foolish in my desire to go back. But my 9 years spent there in 3 separate stints provide the most intense memories of my life.

There are some downsides to social media that I hear every day in my consulting room. But in the main it brings me joys. Many I felt I had lost came back. It has interest groups for me. The music and cricket places I go to are too often populated by pedants, racists and arrogant angry people. One up manship gone silly. But I also subscribe to a couple about old Cambridge. And each brings the joy of how those places used to be. They are gentle nostalgic groups shared by people with a love of Cambridge.

Will I ever return? Hopefully but the Cambridge of old is gone. My foolishness in the 1990s led me to believe I was owed another year. Yet that year was nothing like it had been and felt a disappointment. Too much of my life I have stood still. Not taken risks. Not taken decisions. We cannot get back to the past.

So I look for tomorrow as another day on a journey whose next turn I do not know. Handel accompanies for on that journey tonight. See you all tomorrow.

I Heard a Voice.

I Need a Convertible!

On days like today I wish I had a convertible. It has been glorious. The great thing about spring sun is that unlike the summer it is not accompanied by hordes of wasps and flies. After coffee I took a spin in countryside with the window wound down, Haydn on the stereo, shades on and enjoyed the glory of the day. I stopped for lunch and a pint at The White Horse then onto to my usual Saturday.

Home via my friend Michael's house for tea, I have rib of beef, chicken and minced pork. The beef will be for tomorrow, a nicely aged single rib with some horseradish and a glass of French red. Likely to be chicken tonight then that classic Chinese recipe "the ants climbing the tree". For the uninitiated that is a spicy dish of cellophane noodles and minced pork, a kind of oriental spaghetti bolognese.

Delving further into my Beethoven box set I discovered something truly wonderful. The cello sonatas are every bit as good as the magnificent violin sonatas. It reminds me of Beka's mum who is a cellist. Listening to the last two now.

So far so good this weekend. That said I did have another anxiety packed night of dreams that almost set me on a downward path. Why do I so worry about things I cannot control?

I Heard a Voice.

Lost Compassion.

Had I posted on here yesterday as I had intended you might all have felt I was back at a low ebb in this topsy turvy week. In contemplative mood and having survived the hated day in court I was questioning where my compassion for the mad had gone. Had I become so cynical that I had betrayed my own brethren? Was I letting my stress, disillusionment and anger cloud what I went into this business for? It felt like that. When I teach my nurses, social workers, psychiatrists and clinical psychologists the most important thing that they can learn from me is that the day one loses one's compassion for the mentally ill get out of the business.

It did not feel very nice. Yet on a day on which the sun shone, I did some good and had my first Pimm's of the season I have moved on. Yes I did good today. Sounds like a football commentator. I came away from there tired but in a better place.

On the way home I discovered that the marvellous Albarino that has been glaringly missing from Aldi's shelves has returned. Like a man weakened by famine I rejoiced at that. Tomorrow I must decide my culinary adventures for the weekend. There is a small chance if I wake up early enough I may catch the bus to St Albans. But more likely shopping, the Turkish barber and perhaps lunch in a nice country pub. Talking of Turkish I was informed today that there is a Turkish bath locally. A gem I discovered in the Middle East I have always said that were money no object and I bought a big house I would build or install a steam room or sauna. So invigorating, I feel reborn.

More tomorrow.

I Heard a Voice.