Nonsense

I want to upset all your sensibilties again and talk about depression.

I have been in – the word I would use is shit – but let’s be polite and call it an uncomfortable place that most of you will deal with comfortably.

There has been the ongoing battle with my agent – not so much him, but his aggressive cohorts who feel bethoven to throw out all who struggle to pay their rents, in an effort to prove how efficient they are. My problems are mine, self-inflicted, nonetheless, life, humanistically, should not be geared around an interpretation of capitalism: the West, increasingly the East, view the turnover of money as the only transcendental value – the function of monetary exchange is lost as being a means of idividuals maintaining their value as individuals.

There are other issues that, again, ‘normal’, individuals would deal with without considering them a difficulty.

I have been there, but not now.

If you feel awkward reading about others’ difficulties, leave now.

Because of the wonderful NHS dental service, I have not been able to afford to see a dentist for nine years. So far, I have had to pull out two of my teeth, there is another molar and incisor that are loose and will be out by within the next couple of months. I have lived with absesses in my mouth for the last six months.

Since I broke a front tooth at the age of nine, my teeth have always proved difficult, but I religiously saw my dentist every three months until I arrived in Brighton and the regime changed. Every visit was the equivalent of seeing a barrow boy who was more interested in flogging a set of cheap china than fixing the problem.

This is one issue.

Another, which I share with thousands, is being ‘of an age’.

My brain has not atrophied. My understanding of business and the machinations of office politics remain the same. I am not an idiot. Things change; it takes three and half minutes to catch-up. What person under forty believes that?

I feel totally useless.

My writing is my hope.

The worse of all is I upset all around me, particularly those I love most. I am fortunate in that I can still operate, so have an appointment with my doctor. If this seems a strange boast; admission of a failure is always difficult even if you don’t regard it as failure. I do.

Stupid me.