The Ravages of Age

Andie and I are suffering from what appears to be colloquially known as “long COVID”. That is to say, having had COVID earlier in the year, neither of our bodies have quite recovered from the experience, leaving us feeling way shittier than we really should be when we’re otherwise “healthy”. I use the term loosely because neither of us are exactly “healthy”, but we’re not actively afflicted with any illnesses, so far as I’m concerned.

According to the NHS, the symptoms of long COVID include being achey, tired all the time and generally feeling crap. I can confirm that all of those things are present and correct in my own body; the whole experience has left me feeling about thirty years older than I actually am, and I’m rather keen to leave this feeling behind now. I don’t feel I should be feeling intense pain when sitting down for too long, or standing up for too long, or just generally existing at my age, but, well, I’m sure this is at least partly my own fault.

We’re not doing nothing about it, mind; both of us are following WeightWatchers in an attempt to shed some excess baggage, because that will probably help the symptoms we’re suffering. And while it’s slow going — at least partly because with both OG COVID and long COVID we’ve found ourselves struggling with motivation, because the last thing you want to do when you feel like crap is diet — things are going relatively well. We just need to try and stick with it over the long term. Which is easier said than done, of course, particularly when you’re feeling pretty exhausted and all you want to do is eat in the vain attempt that you might regain some energy and vigour.

After the last couple of years — and after the whole news over the “cost of living crisis” we’re presently enduring here in the UK — it sort of feels like we need to resign ourselves to life being shitty in general, so what, really, is a bit of physical suffering to go along with feelings of existential crisis, a sense that you don’t really belong in the modern world and a quite genuine feeling that the world is actually in the process of ending right now?

There’s a cheery thought for your Thursday afternoon, now, isn’t it? So I think I’m off to go and live my life in denial with either some Final Fantasy XIV, Tower of Fantasy or both. At least in those worlds I can do something about the things that are Wrong, both with myself and with the world at large!

#oneaday Day 748: Life Story

Do you think your own life story would make for an interesting read? Playing Katawa Shoujo rather extensively today has made me give some consideration to the thought, since that game, despite its distinctive — perhaps even unique — premise (“This is a game about disabled girls”) is in fact simply about human relationships and real life struggles. There’s no “epicness” whatsoever; the world doesn’t come to an end; there’s no “save the princess” (except metaphorically speaking in a few instances) — it’s just about normal people (albeit normal people with disabilities) living their lives.

When I think back on my own life, there are certainly plenty of interesting stories there for the telling, and given that we human beings are creatures of habit, often doomed to make the same mistakes over and over, it’s fairly unlikely that there’s nobody out there who could relate to some of them.

This makes the concept of autobiographies an interesting one. The shelves in ailing book retailers such as Smith’s and Waterstone’s are crammed with celebrity “autobiographies” (and I use the term loosely, since a large proportion of them are ghost-written), all called things like My Story, My Struggle or My Tits. (I made the last one up, but it’s arguably what anything written by Katie Price should be called, given the thing that most people seem to know her for.)

The thing is, though, I almost feel like I’d rather read the autobiography of someone who hasn’t led a remarkable life. Someone who hasn’t shot to stardom, done something remarkable with their life. It works for fictional narratives, as anyone who has read Generation X by Douglas Coupland will attest — a narrative in which nothing happens (relatively speaking) means that you can focus more on the people and their reactions to everyday, relatable situations and then, crucially, compare your own experiences and prejudices to the same situations. This is something that you simply can’t do with most celebrity works — they live in such a different world to the rest of us, almost like caricatures or fictional characters.

The “fiction” part of celebrities is arguably at least partly true. Their public perception is something which is carefully managed and controlled by their publicists. The truth behind their lives is often a lot more mundane, but by extension, more relatable. The trouble is, the only time we ever see that mundane everyday life is through the snooping lens of a paparazzi, or in some cringeworthy ITV documentary showing Peter Andre having a wank or something. The very nature of their celebrity makes them feel different, makes observing them doing “natural” things feel like an alien thing to do. Celebrity Big Brother proves this particularly aptly by being actually rather boring. In this case, it’s because they’re in an artificial situation where they’re forced to be mundane, and this, once again, is merely a fictional representation of a real life.

Normal (i.e. non-celebrity) people, though, the non-player characters of society? Those are the ones I’d be interested in reading about. Whether it’s the story of how they got into a fight with their supposed best friend at school over what one of them assumed was light-hearted teasing and the other one took to heart, or the tale of how they met their partner. Truth and real life is sometimes far stranger than fiction, and it’s worth remembering that sometimes.

I’m not sure what my point is, to be honest. I don’t think I’m planning on writing an autobiography (though certain fragments of this blog stray into that territory sometimes, admittedly) but I feel like doing so in one form or another might be an interesting experience. Perhaps writing fictionalised stories based on real-life experiences? It’s something I’ve toyed with the idea of before, but have always shied away from for fear of people connecting the dots too much and making judgements about things I’ve been through.

That said, despite my shyness in a lot of social situations, I’m generally pretty up-front with talking about past struggles if given the opportunity to do so, so perhaps it might not be such a terrible idea to do, after all. The truest, most resonant creative works come from the creator tapping into their own personal well of past experiences and pain.

Anyone reading this tapped into the contents of their own soul and memory and come up with something great?

#oneaday Day 639: Unnecessary Injuries

Have you been injured in an accident that wasn’t your fault? Then call Injury Lawye– wait, no, that’s not what I was getting at.

Have you ever hurt yourself on something that really shouldn’t hurt you? It’s an infuriating experience. Today I injured my thumb on my trousers.

Yes, really.

Let me explain. I have a pair of cheap-ass jeans from Primark (I know, I know, child labour, but cheap. I couldn’t afford to be ethical while I was unemployed) that are fine for most things, but one of the rivety things or whatever they’re called that holds the pockets in place is coming off a little bit, meaning there’s a bit of a sharp edge upon which it’s very easy to nick oneself. Normally I remember it’s there, but as I was sitting down to enjoy a cup of coffee this morning I caught myself good and proper on the thumb, ripping off an impressively sizeable chunk of skin and causing it to bleed profusely.

This would have been infuriating enough had I done it in private, but of course I was in public at the time, meaning that any number of people could have witnessed me sitting at a table with clearly nothing around me that could have possibly injured my finger, yet there I was clasping a bloody napkin to it and wincing.

The only thing slightly more embarrassing than injuring yourself on something as innocuous as a pair of trousers is injuring yourself (in public, naturally) on absolutely nothing at all — the “I Just Tripped Over My Own Feet” scenario. There are few ways to deal with this that leave you with any dignity remaining — whether you choose to simply take the fall and hope that a kind passer by helps you up, assuming that you’re some sort of invalid, or to stumble and break into a slow run as if you always intended to lurch forwards in the way that you did, everyone around you will know that you tripped over absolutely nothing at all and are, therefore, a Bit of a Spaz.

Should you find yourself injuring yourself on a pair of trousers or tripping over absolutely nothing at all (bar your own feet) then there’s likely very little that Injury Lawyers 4 U (“We’re real lawyers!“) can do for you. Unless you’re planning on suing yourself for being such a damn clumsy twat. And that, as I’m sure you’re aware, would be an ultimately self-defeating exercise. Literally.

You could always hope that someone was there with a video camera hoping to make a quick buck from You’ve Been Framed, of course. If you spot yourself on the TV, then be sure to claim likeness rights. You’ll be in the money. Maybe.

#oneaday Day 608: Pain Killer

Aimee Lee had been wracked with inexplicable pains for several days now. She couldn’t explain them, nor did she feel that she could bother the doctors with them. She couldn’t talk to her friends about them, because she didn’t have any friends. But every night, it seemed, the pain got worse, and always, after she did manage to succumb to sleep, she woke the next morning feeling as if she has been beaten, battered and abused.

But there’s no-one there. No-one has beaten her, no-one has taken advantage of her, no-one has violated her. She’s all alone. She has been ever since the day when she decided enough was enough, and called the police on her abusive boyfriend, who took him away, never to be seen again.

“Bitch!” he’d called after her as he was forcibly removed from the premises, her trembling figure cowering in the corner as a female police officer spoke to her in a calm, low voice, assuring her that everything was going to be all right now. “Whore! You’ll suffer! You’ll suffer!”

She’d come to this town of her own volition, given up her life for the man she thought she loved, and for a while all was well. But then his fury started. Every day she’d dread the turning of the key in the lock, for it would mean that he would be back again, and the beatings would start. She’d often be in tears even before he arrived in the house, but that would only fuel his aggression. There was no explanation for it, and on the few occasions where he did prove to be lucid, he had no justification for it, either.

But she missed him. There had been love there, once, and amidst all the abuse and horrors, she knew that he was surely still the man she had fallen for and given everything up for. After a while, she even found herself longing to hear his voice in any form — even if it was yelling at her, a prelude to another beating.

It was in this admission that the shadow found its way into her soul. A fleeting thought, that was all it took for it to take hold. And then the pain started — a dull ache in her limbs at first, but gradually growing in intensity night by night. By now, by the time she eventually passed out from the pain — she couldn’t call it “falling asleep” — her body was wracked with the agony of a thousand burning needles searing her flesh, though her skin bore no scars.

The girl knew the signs as soon as she became aware of Aimee. She had come across this kind of horror before, and she knew all too well that if it were not dealt with quickly, Aimee’s mind and body would tear themselves apart, whether the agony were real or imagined.

So it was that she stepped into Aimee’s mind, flickering energy running up her arm letting her know that the blade with which she had already dispatched so many similar terrors hungered for the blood of the dark one responsible for this particular mess.

The room she found herself in was dark, its walls made of stone, and dull lights sitting in sconces high on the walls.

How cliché, she thought. A dungeon. Perhaps this’ll be simpler than I thought.

A moan from somewhere in the darkness led her to the prone figure of Aimee, lying on the floor, clad in a white dress that was already stained crimson with blood.

“Please!” cried Aimee, her voice quavering with tears. Invisible lashes cause her body to jolt with pain, fresh wounds opening with each hit. “Please!”

The girl stood watching this horrific sight, her jaw set. She wouldn’t have called herself “embittered” or “cynical” but she had been doing this for some time now, and she knew that to become emotionally invested in the situation was to show weakness to the shadow.

“Show yourself,” she muttered, clearing her throat then uttering it again. “Show yourself!”

Aimee’s writhing stopped as the invisible lashes ceased to batter her body. The darkness seemed to shift around her, taking form, becoming a recognisable shape.

“Uh-huh,” said the girl. “Let me guess. Couldn’t get no satisfaction, so decided to take to beating on this poor girl to get your ya-yas.”

The male figure before her snarled, black smoke billowing from his head as he did so. There was to be no parley, it seemed, as it lurched straight at the girl — but she was ready for him, deftly stepping aside and flourishing her arm as she had done so many times, the blade flashing and appearing ready in her hand as she summoned it.

The shadowy, smoky figure lunged at her again, tackling her and slamming her against a wall. Aimee screamed as she watched — she knew his violence all too well, both in reality and here in her own mind, and was terrified to see it inflicted on another. She sobbed, taking big gulps of air as she hoped the girl could escape his terrible clutches.

She did. Kicking away the shadowy figure and slashing at him with the curious blade she held in her right hand, the girl moved with the agility and speed of a cat. She wasn’t going to be caught out again. By the time the smoky figure crudely lurched at her again, she was already elsewhere, slashing at his body with her sword, but even a direct hit caused only black smoke to spew from the wound, not blood.

“Hey!” said the girl, addressing the terrified Aimee for the first time. “What do you want? This isn’t going to work if you don’t know.”

Aimee didn’t know what she meant. She watched the unfolding scene with tears blurring her vision, unable to stand, the pain from her wounds stinging her body and leaving her immobile.

“Come on!” said the girl. “I can’t help you if you don’t help me. I need you to know, Aimee. I need you to say it.”

Aimee gulped, swallowed some air, hiccuped and sobbed again. What did this strange girl mean? And who was she? Aimee had never seen her before in her life, but somehow the girl knew her — or at least her name.

The shadowy figure’s blow found its target, and the girl was sent clattering across the ground, winded, blade still clutched firmly in her right hand. It turned back to Aimee, menace in its glowing red eyes. It began to advance — far more threatening now it has a visible form than when it lashed her body with invisible strokes.

Aimee screamed. This isn’t what she wanted. She wanted things to be back how they once were — back when she was in love, back before he was engulfed with this inexplicable rage. She wanted —

“I want,” said Aimee uneasily, staring in fright at the advancing figure. “I want — I want the pain to stop!”

The girl leapt to her feet.

“That’s it,” she said. “You never wanted this abuse. You never wanted this pain. Once you thought you might, and that’s how you let this thing in. But now you know that way lies only suffering. So I’m here to help with that.”

She plunged the blade deep into the back of the shadowy, smoky figure, which let out an ear-splitting howl before whirling around in an attempt to strike back at its assailant.

“Come on!” cried the girl. “Torture’s such an easy, boring way to inflict pain. Take me instead! I’ll give you a fight.”

She struck again, slicing at its face this time. The blade found its target, and this time instead of smoke, black ichor spewed forth. The girl hopped backwards to avoid the spray.

“Made that mistake before,” she said, more to herself than the horrified Aimee. “That shit never comes out.”

Aimee watched in astonishment. Tears still stung her eyes and blurred her vision, but the sheer oddness of the scene before her almost made her forget the pain that had brought her to her knees in the first place.

The girl plunged the blade deep into the shadowy figure’s torso now, and it let out a howl even worse than the first one. It seemed to shake the very foundations of the room they were in. Its foul black blood sprayed again as the girl twisted the blade, no trace of anger on her face, to all intents and purposes looking as if she was simply screwing a piece of furniture together rather than doing untold damage to the innards of some monstrous creature.

Finally, the figure let out one last roar and exploded in a cloud of black smoke, a torrent of the black ichor suddenly falling to the floor and splattering across it, leaving a stain. There was a silence for a moment, then the blade simply seemed to disappear from the girl’s hand.

“Thank you,” said Aimee, though she still wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.

“You’re welcome,” said the girl, who promptly vanished.

Aimee gasped and opened her eyes. She saw the familiar sight of her bedroom ceiling above her and was momentarily disoriented. What had just happened?

She had no answer to that question, but she knew one thing — the pain had stopped, just like she wanted.

But who was that girl?

#oneaday, Day 290: Ever Onward

Something that someone told me recently (yay for specifics) has stuck with me. That something was the phrase “you don’t stop knowing someone when you’re not with them any more”. Those perhaps weren’t the exact words, but the sentiment stands. And it’s true, whatever the context of you not being with that person any more is. It doesn’t have to be a romantic thing. It could simply be a friendship thing.

I have two examples in mind here. Just recently, I had the good fortune to be reunited with a buddy from school with whom I’d kept in idle contact with—the occasional Facebook comment or tweet—but hadn’t seen face-to-face since the time he visited me during my first year of university, got roaringly drunk with me and then proceeded to assist me in the consumption of a pound of Tesco Value mild cheddar cheese at about 3 in the morning. Actually, there was an incident subsequent to that which involved several people vomiting out of the window of a house onto the corrugated plastic roof of what passed for a “conservatory” in student accommodation. But the cheese incident is the one that remains fresh in my memory.

Said incident was at least ten years ago now, but when we met up in the village pub for a pint and a chat it was like that time had ceased to exist—or at least didn’t matter. We hadn’t seen each other for ages, and yet suddenly we were back to talking about the word “COCK!”, driving in search of “old man pubs” and ending up in the local Tesco garage’s forecourt at 2 in the morning eating pre-packed sandwiches because the nearest club (15 miles away) was shit and/or full, and the old man pubs in question were either shut or had vanished into some sort of rural space-time anomaly. It was, to say the least, awesome. Not all reunions go this way, and I’m sure there are plenty of people I was at school with who are completely different people now. But then I have no idea where they are now, so a reunion is unlikely anyway.

The other example I have in mind is something I wrote about way back on Day 106; the idea of crystallised memories. I probably didn’t coin this term but it’s one I’m particularly fond of: the idea that inanimate objects can possess memories and trigger powerful emotional responses simply by their presence. A crystallised memory can be a tiny thing, like a dirty penny you find in the depths of your coat pocket. Perhaps you remember how it got so dirty. Or where you found it. Or what you were doing when you dropped it into your pocket.

Alternatively, as the case may be, a crystallised memory could be a whole city. Cities are places that are full of life, constantly on the move, changing, morphing, filling with people during the day and evaporating them in the dead of night. But some things don’t change amidst all the chaos—pretty amazing in itself, when you think about it—and those are the things which hold powerful emotional responses, powerful memories, senses of nostalgia, whatever it is you want to call it.

Sometimes, these things which have remained constant amidst the chaos of the daily tsunami of people that pass by them are enough to remind you of something or someone important, something that is, at times, long-forgotten. Tiny little memories which, at the time, seemed inconsequential, unimportant. And yet they are the ones which remained most vivid. A river that you once saw a hundred rubber ducks racing along. A swinging teashop sign and the delicious delights found within. The low beam that you bang your head on as you clamber into an “authentic” old pub.

Sometimes you see all those things again and they cause you pain. They remind you of what once was and what is now no longer.

And sometimes you see all those things again and they bring comfort. They still remind you of what once was and what is now no longer. But something, somewhere, causes the negativity and the pain to slip away and you’re left with those things that you should cling onto, the crystals that shine the brightest, the ones which glitter eternally.

Time heals all wounds, they say. But the good stuff that all the blood and pus and “discharge” from the wounds hides? (That was gross. Sorry.) That sticks around a whole lot longer.

#oneaday, Day 229: First Aid

I went to bed last night with a thumping headache, hoping that I’d be able to sleep it off. Sadly, it was not the case and it was still with me when I awoke this morning. I went out to get some things I needed and a cup of coffee, hoping that the fresh air, caffeine and/or breakfast would get rid of it. Sadly, that didn’t work either. So I came back home and took some painkillers. That did work.

But then, apparently, my brain decided that life was nothing without at least some form of physical pain, or at the very least discomfort, so decided to graciously allow me to lacerate my thumb whilst I was sorting out the bin bags.

As these things tend to be, it was a particularly rubbish and tiny cut which looked far more impressive than it actually was by the amount of blood that decided to bubble up from within it. I ran it under the cold tap and the blood mixing with the water made things look even more serious and quite possibly fatal than they actually were.

In this situation, it’s around now that it’s time to panic. What if it doesn’t stop bleeding? What if you’ve inadvertently found the one essential artery in your body that is essential to survival? And whoever designed the human body put it in your thumb because surely no-one would be stupid enough to cut themselves on the thumb? So you flail around for a little while, not sure whether to keep your gushing (and still quite possibly fatal) wound under the cold tap, to wrap it in some tissue, to suck it (which might make you a vampire) or to go in search of a plaster.

I opted to do three of the above. I rinsed it, temporarily wrapped it in tissue whilst searching for a plaster (in fact, hoping that I had a plaster somewhere in the house as I didn’t fancy walking to the shop with such a terrifying wound) and then finally managed to inexpertly dress said wound. Job done.

Injuring yourself is doubly terrifying when you’re alone. What if it really doesn’t stop bleeding? What if you pass out? What if you bleed to death on your own floor? Who would find you? More importantly, who will you moan at until they offer sympathy?

If someone else is nearby when you injure yourself, it’s twice as likely you’ll make a big deal out of it. Cutting yourself when you’re alone will often result in an “Ahh! Fuck!” under the breath and little else. But suffer an equivalent injury when someone else is nearby and that whispered profanity becomes a full-blown wail of pain. And God help the other person if they don’t respond immediately to your tortured cries. Even though they’re clearly busy doing something else and you don’t actually need them to do anything because your other hand is still just fine and can reach the plasters and dress the wound and you probably won’t need an ambulance but seriously it kind of hurts and ow. The sympathy is good. Possibly not worthy of a hug, but at least worthy of the “inverted frown” look with the eyebrows, a vocalised “awww…” or, in extreme circumstances, an “are you all right?” You expect something. Otherwise the pain won’t go away. And in fact, the injury can’t heal until it’s had at least some sympathy directed at it. It’s like magic.

I’m fine, by the way. Unless there’s no entry tomorrow, in which case I’ve bled to death in my sleep.