The longer I work in mental health, the more I think some of the people who work in the profession are on the wrong side of the ward door. Now I know why they are called PSYCHOtherapists and PSYCHOanalysts.

 

Never ride home on a bicycle under the influence. Never ride home on a bicycle under the influence in London.  Never ride home on a bicycle under the influence in London on a Saturday night. I’ll take the bus next time.

 

 

Oh, to be an office cleaner. The list of duties posted on the wall of our office include ‘removing finger smudges from glass panels on either side of entry door,’ ‘dusting chair legs’ and ‘removing all window smears.’ 

 

‘You cannot judge the importance of things by the noise they make.’

Goodbye Mr Chips

 

Nov 062011
 

Had the pleasure (not) of taking the nipper to see The Smurfs – The Movie yesterday at the local cinema. There is a kid’s club every Saturday morning and entering the auditorium was a return to Bedlam. Screaming kids, popcorn flying all over the place, vacant faced parents steeling themselves for 90 minutes of boredom while pumping their offspring up with industrial levels of sugar. It was a long 90 minutes.

 

 

It’s time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s simple and ordinary as that.

A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills, more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease, or if we’re very fortunate by time itself.

There’s just some consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined though everyone but children (and perhaps even they)  knows these hours will inevitably b y others far darker and more difficult.

Still, we cherish the city, the morning: we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

The Hours, Michael Cunningham

 

 

 

My wife is helping a French lady out with a new website in exchange for giving our daughter some exposure to another language.

The first session ended with the teacher asking Rain if she remembered what “le pomme’ meant in English (that’s apple  for the mono-lingual savages among us).

Our three year-old turned to her and said in a very confidant voice: “I think it means gravy.”

 

 

Why talk to people when an angry arms-length note posted on a lamp post will do. It involves that heady cocktail of angry neighbours, canine excrement and dumped rubbish. Let battle commence…

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