A Country on the March.

London in the sunshine late in the afternoon of a Saturday in early spring was a sight to behold. It is always a spectacle that takes my breath away, magnificent buildings, long history, people wandering about, sheer poverty and the despair of homelessness. I have been to so many great cities in the world and London is up there with many. Yet this was no ordinary Saturday in the capital. It was marching day.

Sarah and I were on our way to the Royal Albert Hall and saw all around us evidence of the great anti Brexit march. They say a million people went. Five million have signed a petition to overturn the result of the vote to leave in June 2016. Politicians are carving each other apart. The government is in meltdown. People are turning on each other. And all along the spectre of what should have been happening next Friday but has now been delayed hangs over my divided country. What we know now seems to show what folly it was to vote to leave. But we did vote to leave and I still ask the question what has happened to democracy if we annul an election because it seemed a stupid decision? We will be quick to condemn any corrupt autocratic undemocratic dictator doing that very same thing.

I'm none the wiser what happens next. Is anyone? But the crisis engulfing us will not go away because we want it to. Will a change of leader or indeed government solve the issue? I fear not.

We only caught the tail end of the march. And I was struck by the irony of the flag waving and imperial reaction of a packed house at the Classical Spectacular we went to see as Land of Hope and Glory rang out given what was happening outside. Glorious music although I learned that even the most famous of choral societies are not that fantastic. Soloists were sublime though and left me in awe even with my musical background.

The journey home was trying and tired and sober I got home at 12.40 am. Not straight to bed but almost.

Once again I woke to see the dawn. And what a dawn it was! Spring sunshine and clear skies, I've not really been out yet except for the paper but it is a beautiful day.

Roast beef has been consumed. Slightly disappointed in the colour, should have been rarer, but it tasted good, the roast potatoes were crispy, the vegetables just right, fine gravy and a nice glass of Rioja.

I'm on to my second opera of the day. Orlando followed by Cosi fan Tutti. Think I might go for a pint after this, take a beef sandwich to Alyssa who is working until 5 pm.

Tomorrow comes my return to work. I'm feeling more grounded than I did and so far not needed to change the medication. We will see how that lasts the week.

Have a wonderful Sunday and see you soon.

I Heard a Voice.

Silhouetted By the Full Moon.

A skeletal tree was silhouetted by the light of the full moon as I left The Hedgehog last night. Nature had not yet brought the bloom back to the barren denuded shape of the tree by the spring equinox. After the grey days of Kent coming back I was pleased to see the sun at least trying to appear. By later that night the clouds had dispersed and the moon was full glorious.

I'm still trying to get rid of the vestiges of the coldy type thing I had when I was down at dad's. I feel fine but still an occasional outburst from the common cold virus. These things are sent to try us. I enjoyed my time in Kent. The beach even on a grey day is worth it. The journey home was without incident.

Unusually for when I go to Kent I slept relatively well. On my return I slept for 8 hours without waking but once I did I couldn't get back to sleep. So far too early for me I drove down to Hatfield to have a wander in The Galleria. Even being close to the campus makes me think of work which wasn't quite the plan. But the thoughts passed when I left.

Home via Gareth's I'm not listening to Beethoven trios and cooking a ragu with the mince Gareth sold me. After an unpromising start it now smells rather good. I will cook it for a couple of hours then save it for another day. I'm expecting Beka late this afternoon. For one night only she will forsake her gruelling health diet and live a decadent night with me. I probably ought to get back to something of a diet but lack the will power. Last year's relapse rather did for my healthy living.

Mentally I'm feeling more grounded for my break. I haven't needed to increase my Risperidone but am still holding that in reserve if things go awry when I get back to work.

Will probably be back on here on Sunday. Until then have fun.

I Heard a Voice.

The Lonely Narcissus.

A single yellow daffodil grew just a few yards away from The Waggoners on a piece of wasteground on Sunday. That there is wasteground in such a beautiful place seems sad but the decaying cottage that is just down the road seems to have been given up to posterity. It is hard to believe the main road north ran right by the front door of the pub until they built the motorway.

You may recall me mentioning the story of Echo and Narcissus on here before. The story holds a poignant and sad back drop to my own story. The Dutch call the daffodil the narcissus and every spring it takes me back to long lost but not forgotten days when I was condemned by psychiatry and abandoned to my fate. Could Bernie have ever foreseen how I escaped that fate?

Have I succeeded on the winding road to middle age and become distinguished? Or have I become the mediocrity my despair tells me I am? Many doubt that latter concept but forever my life will be of what might have been.

Back at the seaside it is nice to escape. Didn't feel great yesterday waking with swollen tonsls, sore throat and sneezing on an epic scale. But we made it to Canterbury anyway, lunched at Cafe Mauresque and enjoyed a day out.

Today I woke late, strolled along the beach, listened to the gulls on a scene almost bereft of human activity and had a fry up in The Nutmeg Cafe. A couple of pints in The Bell then home to cook belly pork. We are expecting visitors, cousins I've never met so just put some rolled, stuffed belly pork in to slow roast. Hope it comes out well.

My return begins tomorrow lunch time at Folkestone Central railway station. With luck I'll be back mid afternoon. I will shop, do the washing, read, listen to opera and prepare for Beka's arrival. Maybe I'm cramming a little too much into my break.

Take care out there.

I Heard a Voice.

Insipid Greyness.

Another grey and insipid dawn greeted me early this morning after another violent dream troubled my sleep. There is I fear a pattern forming here. Not what I wanted on the first day of my holiday.

The day after that terrible atrocity in Christchurch there was noticeably beefed up security for Friday Prayers at the University. My travels don't often take me to places of worship but chance took me there on an outreach visit. When will this unspeakable violence again innocent people of many faiths and creeds across the world end? I'm not sure it will in my lifetime.

Aside from the events of far greater significance than my little dramas I can only focus on my life. And it wasn't the easiest of weeks. Funny how an innocuous comment in therapy can open a Pandora's box of chaos. But in the heat of the moment I decided I wasn't yet ready to fight that demon. I fear the beast being unleashed.

I came home worried, thoughtful and acknowledging that the crossroads I've been stuck at for several years is beginning to show visible road signs. I'm just too frightened to go where I need to go. The pattern I alluded to earlier shows wild mood swings, anger, stress, glory and more Rioja and nicotine replacement. This in turn leads to bad dreams and troubled dawns.

Today did not start well but got better. I saw an old student of mine today to try to give her the wherewithal to get through a PGCE. That is the second such conversation I've had this week. Back at home we were treated to perhaps the most exciting rugby match I have ever seen. Even I might have smiled and said well done if Scotland had held on to win.

Back in what I call home where the kitchen is so important I served myself medium rare pan fried duck breast with pomegranate molasses, rosemary and garlic roast potatoes, carrots, kale and green beans. A triumph in most respects I'm sure the most critical of observers, me, would suggest it was under seasoned. But I did well.

Mozart graces me with his sublime genius and the Rioja is good. Tomorrow brings rolled stuffed lamb breast, another opera and an afternoon reading. The following morrow I head to the seaside. Let's hope the rain stays away along with the violent dreams and thoughts of my many failings.

I Heard a Voice.

Glittering Prize or Inglorious Failure.

Dawn was not a pleasant sight today. Woken by a bad dream the contents of which were already forgotten ten seconds later I got up and saw a grey, ugly light, cold and wet, and no sign of the sun. An early March morning reminding us all that although glimpses of spring have been they are not yet consistent. Being so short sighted and still dazed by a chemically infused haze I was not able to ascertain what time it was. I emerged to get ready for work a couple of hours later.

Another busy and frenetic day lay ahead. At certain points of the year requests are made for letters. Letters to excuse incomplete work, missed deadlines, conveying bereavements, illness and disaster, ill fate, and all myriad of things. All so that people can have another chance. It seems that no one of this generation can possibly be allowed to fail. I loath writing such letters for why should someone's fate be in my hands? They have to do the work, put in the hours and take the exams.

After such a long day I'm left with a terrible dilemma. A glittering academic triumph or inglorious failure. That fate lies in my hands. I learned from my own bitter experiences and lost 20s that at some point we all have to fight back against mental illness, take action and take responsibility. In real life there are no study needs agreements or serious adverse circumstances. One has to do. I do not have my job because I have a mental illness. I have it because I can do it. The day I can't do it I will no longer have a job.

An individual gets the glittering prize or the individual gets inglorious failure. In my hands lies fate. And that troubles me.

Retreating into my world of opera and literature I'm still thinking. Neither Mozart's Lucio Silla nor Forster's Howards End have led me to any answer yet. But I indulge anyway. I managed three more chapters of the book. And another opera is in its 3rd act.

Tomorrow is another day. We're expecting a storm overnight. I'm another day closer to my break. I have three days left. On one of those days I must decide someone's fate. They never told me it would be like this back in 2007 when I journeyed to a place unknown and came away with a glittering prize. Not always easy being me.

I Heard a Voice.

Some Sense of Normality.

The flames of rage of yesterday have receded to mere embers of irritation. Looking back life has been quite volatile for me the last few weeks. Wonder what the therapist will make of it all when we meet on Thursday? Thinking pragmatically it is probably a good idea that I'm off the week after next. Kent will be a welcome change.

I have an intense realisation that danger signs are around and I must negotiate in a sensible way rather than letting wildly swinging emotions rule and ruin what is going on in my life. I haven't yet needed to hit the Risperidone. Neither did I fire off raging e mails last night when I got back home. That seemed on the cards much of the evening. I'm terrible company when I feel like that and regret that Sarah has seen it not once but twice in recent days.

Back home on a sunny but blustery Sunday there are trees down up the road. My road is currently closed. I did manage to escape by another route to The White Hart for a pint. It was pretty busy so I sat outside and held onto my glass to avoid a smash and the contents of beer ending up all over me.

At the flat the heating is on so it's nice and cosy. A shoulder of pork seasoned with salt, pepper, thyme and sage is roasting slowly. Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito is my afternoon opera. This morning it was Handel's Rodelinda. 

Gary, Ali and Alyssa are due around 6 pm resplendent with Rioja and good company. Had I felt as I did yesterday I would surely have cancelled. Will be interesting assessing my mood diary, the chart looks pretty volatile so far. I need my break.

Take care out there in this wind but do try to enjoy the sunshine if you can.

I Heard a Voice.

A Guilty Triumph.

To say that my mum was confrontational at times is something of an understatement. Hostile and aggressive especially if she thought she was being ripped off. I recall as a child squirming in shops when she went in to complain. The legacy for me has been a lifelong fear and avoidance of confrontation and conflict.

Today I got into a confrontation in John Lewis. I spent my work Christmas bonus voucher on two pairs of Levi's. One pair with in a sale, one was not. What I didn't expect was for such an expensive and hardy pair of jeans to split in just a few weeks. The last couple of days I have avoided the potential confrontation of taking them back. As fate would have it the pair that split were the on sale pair. As I feared they were very happy to help but wanted another £40 for a replacement pair. Despite my fear I stuck to my guns and triumphed with a new pair of jeans.

They made me feel as if I was in the wrong. Like I was trying to steal from them. I rightfully triumphed but have been left with a terrible sense of guilt that I have done something wrong. Sarah has told me many stories about how vile some of the customers in the shop can be. But I'm not like that. I'm not trying to get something for nothing, I just wanted a pair of Levi's.

Back at home I'm wondering what to do with myself. It was a long and tough week that was also confrontational at times. So very glad that week is over. Another week of work then I'm off down to Kent. Still trying to work out what to get dad for his upcoming birthday. I'm sure I will find something.

Tomorrow I have invited friends over for roast pork. When I woke this morning I felt fear and anxiety and wondered why I keep inviting people when what I really need is a day on my own. The thought of cooking sometimes feels daunting but it usually works out in the end.

Enjoy your weekend, more soon.

Mark

The English Country Churchyard.

There can be few more tranquil places than an English country churchyard on a summer's day with the sun shining. There hasn't been much sun today and we are a little way off from summer. The idea came to me by a short chapter on the subject by Sister Wendy Beckett famous nun and art scholar in a rather excellent book I bought in my profligate mood swing spending spree of recent weeks English Icons edited the the American anglophile Bill Bryson. Well worth a read.

It took me back to a summer long ago. As a child I had a fascination with churchyards and inscriptions on ancient tomb stones. That summer was 1991. My life had been out of control for exactly a year. Within weeks I would succumb to my gathering demons and wind up first on a life support machine then in an asylum with metal doors and bars on the windows.

On those fateful days Rachel had come up to visit and I took her to all my emotional spots in Cambridge, the places that had witnessed my life, my despair, my joy and now my fear that life was over. I took her to the church at Grantchester. A little village made famous by the war poet Rupert Brook who lived at the Old Vicarage whilst studying at King's. In more recent time the author and disgraced former politician Jeffrey Archer has lived at the same house. I only vaguely knew him in those days. Even more recently my lovely friend Tory oversaw the detective series Grantchester with the dashing sleuthing vicar Sidney for ITV.

Rachel of course being the religious zealot that she was and may still be always told me sitting in that churchyard on that summer's day had most impact on her.

The last time I was there was for the funeral of my old friend and former vicar Noel Bewster whose kindness, generosity and care kept me going in the tough times of King's. He was kind man whose epitaph simply reads Noel Brewster Priest.

On this Ash Wednesday I am back with King's. I have listened to both the Roy Goodman and Tim Beasley-Murray recordings of Allegri's Miserere and thought of a bygone time. That past often grips on to me and I struggle to let go. How can one let go one's history? It is what made me. That fateful journey that took in so many places and brings me now to that which now I am.

I hope one day to return to the peace of that churchyard. To look at Noel's grave and to put into perspective what once is but barely is no more.

Go to Grantchester. Go to King's. Listen to the Allegri. Read Icons of England. I think they are all good for the soul. Not a religious soul but the one of the culture that we have here that brings us to more peaceful places.

Good luck with whatever you may be giving up in Lent. Will see you in Holy Week when once again Allegri appears along with Lotti and all those marvellous Easter works.

I Heard a Voice.

Treading a Volatile Path.

The blossom is out, the bulbs are blooming, the sun is trying to shine and the expected rain has thus far held off. Is spring sprung? On a week of record setting temperatures, students packing the outside tables of the College Lane bar and intense activity all is not right with me. I noticed that I was beginning to soar on Monday. Confirmation of what I had missed came with the pre pay day bank balance check and the realisation that I have been profligate, uncaring and wild with money in the last few weeks.

Faced with that I knew I needed to clamp down financially and probably in mood. So I didn't buy the beautiful coat and pair of books that I had my eye on. Nor did I lunch out today. Kept it simple and just made a Halloumi salad at home.

Soaring mood though has not been the end of the story. The last two days I have felt tired and deflated. The working triumphs of the early part of the week seem distant now. The darkness flitted into my world last night, sneered at me and told me you are who you are.

The rockiness of the my path in the last week, the volatile twists and turns have unnerved me a little but I'm trying to stay optimistic.

I managed to get a few things done today though. Washing, tidying up, making the bed, and some shopping. My fridge is full. I have all the ingredients to make a Moussaka this afternoon. Sarah will join me for that. Tomorrow I will roast a small chicken seasoned with tarragon and thyme and stuffed with half a lemon. Who knows what I will do in the week but I did buy some ribs yesterday which I will marinate with Hoisin, nam pla, lemongrass and basil then bake in the oven. Not sure when but it sounds heavenly.

In the not too distant future I'm expecting a visit from Beka. She has just been a given the commission to paint the head of a school not too far away. So she will stay. Have fun this weekend, I will leave you to it now.

I Heard a Voice.