Never Judge a Blog by its Cover Story

12.11.14 (Day 325)


Sometimes it takes a lot of reading to find out what is actually written between the covers of a book. Of course it does.

Sometimes I have to fold things up and keep them to myself; keep them in my pocket, up my sleeve or in my head. Or rather, I used to.

The time approaches.

There are things not written here which only myself and a very close inner circle know about. But in much the same way that I say RTFB so that I can tell everyone everything, there remain secrets. Myself and one other person share a secret: several in fact. The key to that secret is a number which only myself and that person know. Other things I can share with that person and one other. The clues are in the writing. The notes I’ve written; the words I used which will only come into context when certain people get together and compare notes.

Some people think they’re close to me but they’re not as close as they could or should be. Not as close as they’d like to be and not as close as I will let them be. To be that close to me could be dangerous: it could endanger them.

It’s like a puzzle: when I move on, certain people have information. Alone, those individual pieces of information mean little. Together, they all add up to make an answer. I’ve made sure that the right people have the correct pieces of information. I know that those people will come together and compare notes on me. Some of those people don’t even know that they have what I’ve given them. They will.

And I have a lot of secret information on others, including email addresses which I’ve set up for some of my inner circle and which only they have access to.

The time will come. People will understand. Very soon.

Me and my blog will finally give up our secrets.

On Judgement Day.

Peer Prudence

11.11.14 (Day 324)


Prudence, due diligence, caution…

Words I should pay more heed. But I don’t. I can’t stop myself. So yesterday someone else had to. Yet another person saved my life. They stopped me taking the plunge.

I’d been to see my doctor – who is a credit to his profession – and gained a diagnosis of a bad mouth. Hatred, vitriol, controversial opinions, unwanted advice, expletives… They all come of there. So I merely learned what I already knew. And that my shaving cut has become infected, so I’m on antibiotics to go with the cocktail of drugs I already take. It’s not infectious. Although apparently I am.

And I’ve been referred to a shrink: let’s see if this one can work out what’s going on under my lid. I can’t, so I doubt it. I’m guessing I’ll be patronised and have to fill out a load of forms to be categorised. I belong on a shelf of my own.

So after seeing the doctor, I went to the nearest chemist to collect my drugs: the chemist was closed. I felt like some time to myself and in finding some personal space I was reminded that my own company is often the worst. I want to be on my own but I don’t. I want to be left alone but I’m not. If there are people around, I can’t ignore them; if there is no-one, I long for contact. But I pose no threat to others nor myself. If I did, I might be better off: either sorted out or dead.

I needed a drink, so I sought solace with my local newsagent (the one I stole from and who is now a very good friend). He could see that I was troubled but the environment wasn’t conducive to conversation. So he gave me a pen and paper and this is what I wrote:




You may not kiss the wife. Although she’s still all over you. And your mouth. It’s not infectious but you are. So says my head. But my heart always wins.

I’m sitting on my own. I’m where I often long to be: alone and surrounded by nothing other than self-created personal space. The invaders will come though.

I’m gathering my thoughts. I have few belongings right now, other than the clothes I wear and the pen and paper I was just given and which I’m using to write this.

There’s a wall behind me and on the other side are the railway tracks. I’m very tempted to play with the trains today. But a thought occurs which has stopped me in my tracks, rather than throwing myself on them: those I’d leave behind with just a note on this piece of paper I’m writing on. All that I have to kill now then is time.

I’m on my bench. The bench where I spent so much time when I was properly on the road. The bench where I met one of my ex-girlfriends. The bench which was host to the last reunion of The Pink Hearts. The bench where I sit and write what will not be my last note, on the paper given to me by one of many people I’m able to write about and all of whom have just saved my life.


So I came back. I spoke. I poured my heart out. I cried. I spoke to The Wife: the one of a few who regard me as every schoolgirl’s fantasy and every dad’s nightmare. I spoke to my brothers, sisters and friends. I realised that I would be missed if I’d not come back and that I mustn’t leave. Not this time.

My little fold-up sister has been a great little prop. She’s foldable but when she’s unfolded, she props me up. Like others, she reminds me why I do all that I do; why I’m me and the one that she and others will always turn to. She’s just like me. Just like me, she has a blog. And she mentions me:


“So I just wanted to ask how is it possible for a sixteen year old like me to be accepted by society? The answer I have a personal drive and a dream on which I use to help me through my daily life but like everyone else my life is not perfect. Its so far from it that its more believable to say ET and the Easter bunny are brothers.

“However I do have a pretty good life in comparison to those of some people I know and that’s because I am so lucky to have such a huge amount of people that love and care for me.

“There is one I specifically want to draw your attention to…

“Steve, the mentor, metaphorical brother and man I turn to in times of trouble. I have learnt so so much from him that I have to thank him as he is the person who has made me who I am today.

“Yes I know you might think I should be saying this about my mum and dad but I feel that is their duty as parents to care and protect me. Of course I am forever in their debt for such an amazing upbringing but seriously look at Steve’s blog and you will understand all of what I say here is true.

“Till next time”

Another member of the teenage fan club speaks up for me? A friend; a sister; a peer? A fantasy? Apparently another one who credits me with being their maker. So my existence is worthwhile to some. Apparently. I’ve done a lot wrong but it’s always nice to be recognised for what was done right. And I’ve done nothing other than be there and be myself.

As was the case with the others, some of whom I became a fantasy to. And some of those made up stories which got me into trouble. But still I soldier on, not giving up on my kids.

And I’m still learning the meanings of prudent, diligent and caution. But those are the property of the wind that I cast them to, which is why I’m still seeing The Wife, albeit less often.

Many reasons to keep going and live.

Mushroom Medley Mound

Mushroom Tagliatelle 


From the Restaurant at Home cook book

(Serves 4)

You will need

1kg (yes, 1kg: they shrink) mushrooms. Use various types: button, chestnut, flat, field, morrell, horn of plenty; whatever you can get

500ml creme fraiche

250g salted butter

4 tablespoons oil

250g dried or fresh tagliatelle pasta (If using dried, 2-3 “nests” per person is about right)

Salt and black pepper to taste

Then do this

Fry the mushrooms in the oil and butter over a low heat until soft (about 1/2 their pre-cooked size), for 20-30 minutes. Retain any excess oil and juices

Boil the pasta until al dente (about 10-12 minutes for dried)

Drain the pasta, pour it into the pan with the mushrooms and pour the creme fraiche over the lot

Season to taste and stir to combine everything, coating the pasta and finishing the cooking process (about 5 minutes)

Serve with garlic bread or garlic toast