Well, another misguided attempt to get this blog going again. Content is much harder to create than I thought, I guess. I'm not enough of a journalist to dish the dirt on my nearest and dearest, don't really see myself as a pundit, and a parody requires a fully thought line in irony, or one's psychological slip is likely to show.
I'm out of the loony bin, having tried to get myself beamed up, and have also moved, which means I seem to spend an awful lot of time putting up shelves and unpacking books. I was managing a nice line in avoidance, re-arranging the garden, but the bank holiday weather has put paid to that.
For a little light relief I took Nick Ferrari to task for Jeremey Clarkson's recent comments, although as it's the equivalent to an audition on the X-Factor, I wasn't quite as, measured as I could have been, not having any idea of when I would be cut off and consequently not prepared to spend my time buttering him up. I still can't bear to listen to the podcast!
I managed to get out of the NHS just before the smoking ban. I survived this recent stay by self-medicating with nicotine like mad, excuse the pun. Illustration of the smoking room, wjich was quite a haven with 24 hour group therapy, until a mad psychiatrist was admitted and started taking case histories before lauching themselves into their "patients."
Thinking about the upcoming new series of Big Brother, which of course I swear I won't start watching this time, I am yet again reminded of the parralels with the house and yur nearest general admission psychiatric ward. I do think a better expression for the end of a houemate's stay would be "You have been discharged, please leave the ward."
There is the same lack of stimulation, the almost excruciating lack of privacy, count how many times you express an opinion that could apply to someone sitting behind you, innappropriate touching, sceaming shouting and general attention-seeking, etc, etc.
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