This post is bought to you by the letter B

Hello!  I’m back, broke and burned.  All of two days away, but still, why not announce it with outrageous derring do? Swash!  Buckle!

The trip to Broadstairs was a failure in terms of getting sleep, despite the opulent bed and relative peace.  I managed three hours on Sunday night and was awake again by 1.30am.  I watched a bit of a video and then went wandering by the sea in the dark, smoking furiously and getting lost.  I came back, I read some, then went out again for another walk.  I was the only guest there so I inspected all the other empty rooms and used the private toilet of one of them, feeling rather smug. At least, I hope the rooms were empty and I wasn’t just plonking myself down on a cold toilet seat being stared at by a small French family.  I did some writing on the beach.  The man who ran the place was lovely and made me a ham sandwich because every single shop for buying such things closed by 8pm.  He reminded me a lot of Rob’s dad, the kind of man whose gentleness radiates from them, who would be happy to spend a morning teaching you the intricacies of sheep shearing, who’d let you run your hands across the soft wool.

Robert joined me on Monday evening, since I thought it would be nice for him to see the seaside, too.  He hates sand, but he’ll have to overcome that phobia considering one day he’ll be buried up to his neck in it by pirates mistaking his bicorne for an insult to their people.  We walked to Ramsgate, a very English place.  I slept for an extremely fitful six hours on Monday night, and now it’s Wednesday morning at 4am and I’m awake again, after trying to sleep but having too many thoughts chainsawing through my head and generally feeling twitchy.

It wasn’t a waste, though, I did have a lovely time away.  The B&B was on a residential street, a rather generic looking one, but it backed onto the sea, across to Belgium, 123 miles away, or thereabouts.  It was owned by a cat called Merlin, who’s one of those thin, slightly ragged cats whom when you stroke him gives under your hands, you can feel the bones, he hasn’t got the reassuring mantle of fluff that younger cats too.  He was a big mouth of mrow.  I feel peaceful by the sea and it did calm me down somewhat.  Today on the beach we ran from a seagull the size of an airplane.   It was probably the same one that shat in Robert’s latte from a great height while he was gearing up to say something sarcastic.

Some photos because I love my camera.

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The best one was this, though:

It should be cock.

I spoke to my social worker via email to cancel our Monday appointment and found out that the GP won’t prescribe me anything to help me sleep as I have a history of overdoses and he won’t take the risk.  This irks me slightly as I have overdosed four times.  Okay, four times more than most, but twice was in my teens before I understood what overdosing was, and twice as an adult- one in the midst of a depression that made me believe animals lived in my walls and being at home made me feel unsafe and terrified, and once after I spent most of the year depressed then took Effexor.  I’m not an impulsive overdose-ee, and not at risk to myself.  Mentally, I am fairly cheerful, if not brain-buzzed, but physically I am falling to bits because of lack of sleep.  That combined with completely losing my appetite, bloodshot eyes, legs and hands that keep going numb, cold sores and spot outbreaks means I’m not a pretty specimen right now.  I’m quite irritable, which isn’t fun for Robert.  Make up helps the face, though, and it means I can pull off bits of my flaky skin.

I shall be throwing myself into work for the next week as I feel more enthused about writing and want to make £100,000 somewhere so I can have a houseboat.  And also really rather desperately need to do something with my life.

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