Bella II

Bella

Bellacat can barely walk. She can barely eat. I think the end is coming. Some will dismiss this as a kind of cloying sentimentality. But Bella has become a part of my life, a part of me. And she has been for eleven years. I think I will die without her.
I am so afraid. She is me. I am her. I don't know what to do.
I don't want her to die for if she does then a part of me dies too.

Currently Listening to...

...Blondie's Rip Her to Shreds. It brings to mind a certain spoof blog and no, it's not the Real Steve Jobs. That's actually tremendously witty.

BLONDIE LYRICS

"Rip Her To Shreds"

(Hey! Psst PSST! Here she comes now.)
Oh, you know her, would you look at that hair
Yeah, you know her, check out those shoes
She looks like she stepped out of the middle of somebody's blues

She looks like the Sunday comics
She thinks she's Brenda Starr
Her nose job is real atomic
All she needs is an old knife scar

Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds
She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds

Oh, you know her, "Miss Groupie Supreme"
Yeah, you know her, "Vera Vogue" on parade
Red eye shadow! Green mascara!
Yuck! She's too much

She looks like she don't know better
A case of partial extreme
Dressed in a Robert Hall sweater
Acting like a soap opera queen

Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds
She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds

She got the nerve to tell me she's not on it
But her expression is too serene
Yeah, she looks like she washes with Comet
Always looking to create a scene

Yeah, she's so dull, come on rip her to shreds
She's so dull, come on rip her to shreds
She's so dull. Rip her to shreds

Oh, you know her, "Miss Groupie Supreme"
Yeah, you know her, "Vera Vogue" on parade
Yeah, you know her, with the fish-eating grin
She's so dull

Yeah, she got the nerve to tell me!
Huh, she's so dull
Yeah, there she goes now
She making out with King Kong
She take her boat to Hong Kong
Well, bye bye sugar
And not a minute too soon

The BBC...

....have reversed their decision to censor the word 'faggot' in the Christmas classic A Fairytale of New York

But who thinks of 'the scumbags and the maggots' or indeed the the 'bums' or the 'punks' or 'the old sluts on junk lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed' ? Nobody cares about them. Life is so not fair! (insert emoticon here.)

They only care about some traditional British delicacy.

If You Want to Avoid...

...exposing yourself as a refugee from the eighties, then for the love of cake, don't use the word 'ace'. Please.

And take a look at this - the only hospital in the country that attempts to help those afflicted with personality disorders is being closed down. The lunatics really have taken over the asylum.

(Nothing wrong with that - it's just that these are the wrong lunatics.)

Its patients are mostly young women who, after traumatic childhoods often involving horrific sexual abuse, have become bent on self-destruction through prolonged bouts of self-harming, cutting and burning themselves.

The wrong demographic and the wrong kind of mental illness?

WTF?

People seriously believe this woman is fat?  Oh.My.God.  Scalpel, vacuum cleaner.  It's time for a little DIY liposuction.

Spring in the Midst of Winter

Pollyanna? Moi?

During one of my admissions to the EDU (that's Eating Disorders Unit for those unfamiliar with the jargon) one of the nurses told me that, in her oh so humble opinion, that I was adopting the role of the 'Pollyanna of the ward'.  She asked me why I insisted upon focusing on other people's issues at the expense of my own issues.  I hated her at the time but maybe she was more astute than I gave her credit for.  Denial?  Isn't that a river running through Egypt?  This is the closest I'll get to a mea culpa.

Mismatched?

What are Doug (92 year old war veteran) and I to do on these long, dark nights when I pop across the expanse of lawn that separates his flat from mine? Doug was known as Nubby throughout his time in the RAF and then the army. Apparently, everyone with the name 'Clarke' in the army is automatically known as 'Nobby'. No one thinks to ask why,. Well, we sit, we watch TV, we talk, we reminisce. Sometimes I think that some supernatural force has pushed us together. Often I picture us as two helpless, stranded sailors cut adrift from our nation's territorial waters and everything we once knew. Because the alliance of two people as different as we are is unacceptable in conventional circles. And it is those circles that squeeze the world by the throat. So we delicately sidestep the demands made upon us by those who have never been where he has, who have never been where I have and, please God, with a cherry on top, see to it that they never do.

And, yes, another Remembrance Sunday has passed without a remark from Doug. He is more than a war veteran is his constant refrain but nothing can change the fact that when he closes his eyes at night, he sees things that most of us could never even conceive of.

Insomnia

I am awake because I am afraid to sleep.  And the drugs that used to work are useless now

They call this 'rebound insomnia'.

My cat is a sweet, sleeping semi-circle at the bottom of my bed. I envy her. I wish we could swap places like a feline Freaky Friday.  I wonder what she dreams about.  I'll never know.  I don't speak miaow.

Can someone translate?

Apparently I have Nothing Better to Do Than...

hang out at this blog.

punter (qual res) | 12.03.07 - 9:00 am | #

Louise, (for it is you), I have avoided addressing you directly before. Not out of fear but because mental illness is your thing and I tend to avoid accusing FJL directly of mental illness. I know too little about it and it does no good because she simply denies it and throws it back.

My thing? No, I never take credit when it isn't due. Let these people take the credit for that:
http://www.ministryoftruth.me.uk...lower-a-flower/

Hmm, all those people lining up to kiss one guy's ass. An epidemic of backache must have ensued.



But Jailhouse lawyer is not me. He, as far as I know, does not post here and has no need to, because he has his own blog, and he has no record of commenting anonymously. He may well have an ego of his own. He certainly isn't afraid.

Message to Felicity: The next time you commit a crime, make it less serious. Don't target the online world's answer to the people's princess, bash a little old lady over the head with an axe instead. (And remember to use the blunt end because that somehow diminishes culpability.)
It's an excellent career move.



So - quoting what someone else wrote on JHL's blog is a bit of an obscure thing to be doing here.

And I note that you commented 3 times last night and then immediately responded to the first comment here. Are you, as some have suggested, hovering over these pages?

Who has suggested this then? One of your alter-egos? I'm just waiting to see what you'll accuse Ms. Lowde of next. Every misfortune this species has encountered since the fall? Or was she responsible for that too? That serpent was framed. On these pages it has been intimated that she is a prostitute, a holocaust denier and now this. Seriously, mate, are you trying to get her off? You know, if I were FJL I'd have started this blog myself, enticed my accusers (Victims, call them what you will) to comment on it and then induced the defence of provocation.



Please, comment under your own name and don't assume (à la fjl) that this blog or its comments are written by JHL. I dare say he would take credit for his own work. He has done so far.

And your given name is 'Punter'. And Shurly Some Mistake's name is 'Shurly Some Mistake'? Whatever.

I'm afraid you're the one making erroneous assumptions. You may not wish to take credit for other people's work but someone else certainly does. One of your...um...masterpieces was plagiarised on the comments section of my blog. The person responsible had Mr. Hirst's portal on his blogroll.

If Ms. Lowde is an attention junkie, then you are her dealers.

Deconstruction of My Mother

She told him about the boy at the end of her street, the one with the overgrown garden permeated by the stench of cat piss.

'Did he touch you?' asked Patrick.
'Yes,' Wendy replied. 'He did.'
'Where?' he persisted. Later, looking back, Wendy would realize that she was his first psychiatric patient. His blank canvas. He transformed her. Wendy touched her breasts, and her vagina. 'It happened because my parents were never there, never home. The Rose and Crown - our local pub was my father's second home. The factory was his second. We came third.. His work kept him just this side of sanity. He worked in a factory. There was camaraderie on that assembly line, he used to say. There was camaraderie on the picket line too.

She was his chameleon; his Eliza Doolittle.. Under his tutilige she became glamorous, vivacious, intelligent, creative, charming. Or, at least, that's what Patrick told her. Before he asked her to marry him. She had got what she came for - the status and privileges that come with being a doctor's wife.

In the end Wendy became an unpaid actress. The whole world was her stage and their family and friends were the co-stars.


On the night before she died Cynthia's bedtime story had been The Water Babies.

They found her face down, floating in the lake.

Screenshot

A work in progress.  (Ignore the random text.)

Mostly Harmless