I've started counting booze units again. Partly because I'm bordering on listomania again - approached with caution, it used to be such a "listless" operation that during a hospital admission once I wrote consecutive lists for days without stopping, something I only became aware of when I asked for a copy of my file years later and some poor secretary had to photocopy the lot - but also because I seem to constantly have a glass of plonk in my hand at the moment. I'm smoking too and smoking a lot, and as a non smoker I don't smoke at all. Obviously.
I could blame my recent Angie Watts personification on this time of year - it's wedding season, the sun's out, there seem to be more bank holidays than actual days - but I'm spending most of my time indoors, on my own, and for obvious reasons I often get tippexed off the wedding list.
I'm also having to list some of my thoughts, they're neither fun nor glamourous, to take to Mr Upstairs. The poor note book that has to hold all this information (yes, I'm even feeling sorry for stationary now days) looks like a polluted take on Bridgit Jones' diary.
But on a positive note (and yes, that happens sometimes too) when you write things down, be it lists, letters, your will, etc.. things a) starts to make sense - I sometimes script format my conversation for therapists beforehand other wise I feel that what I'm trying to say doesn't make sense or is untrue, and b) it lets a little of whatever is bugging you out, and you do feel a bit better, slightly resolved. This is why I write, why I've always written, why I've spent years writing for journals, press, stage,TV, radio.. even toilet graffiti - no one needed to know that it was me who did it with Matthew Spears.
Ironically I'm not much of a reader. Maybe the odd serial killer biography or self help book. The latter was recently eaten by one of my guinea pigs who has never been as chilled out, smug and vegan since!
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