Meme Tagging.

Ok,this came from Ally via dadwhowrites.Not alltogether sure I want to put my inner fears out there in the ether but I have a habit of being overly honest.At least that’s one of the ten out of the way.These are the rules.

“OK, the rules of this award are that I now have to say 10 honest things about myself, and then tag 7 bloggy friends who I think are honest and true with what they have to say.  Sigh.  The hard part.  OK, first things first.  10 honest things.  This might be difficult, because I think you all know everything already.  I mean, isn’t that what the award is about, being honest and spilling my guts?”

1.I talk too much,or at leat I think I do.While camping recently a guy came over to borrow a cup of sugar:) and we waffled for 30 minutes.Sometimes I think I should shut up.Having said that Rhys said to me that they were talking t’other day and commented on how useful I am in social situations,apparently I can get on with people and talk to anyone from a binman to a doctor.Perhaps that’s a good thing?

2.I do like the person I am.I feel as though i have some great qualities,fantastic friends and am reasonably smart.I think I genuinely like to help people and have compassion.

3.I wish I wasn’t ugly.I hate it when the beautiful people get things easily because of the way they look.

4.I love painting and studying with the OU,I just don’t think I am particularly talented at either of them.

5.I think losing both my parents young has affected me far more than I like to admit.

6.I’m terrified of dying,yet I have no faith.It’s plagued me for years,I joined the CND when I was fourteen and had nightmares for years about nuclear war.

7. I have always been hedonistic and wild,so were all my mates. We were party animals,we abused ourselves.They grew up and started to settle,have families etc.I couldn’t,didn’t want to.I think I may have made a dreadful mistake.It feels like iv’e missed the boat.

8.I much prefer to give rather than take.Sort of it’s much better to give someone a wonderful christmas present than recieve one,just to see the look in their eyes.I wonder if that makes me selfish.

9.I’ve changed.I’m looking for a soulmate,i’m frightened she doesn’t exist,and if I find her can I truly let go or will my fear of her dying spoil everything.

10.I wonder if i’m a total basket case and will die alone in a gutter somewhere.

Of Pesto and Poppies.

April 12^th 2000.

The North African heat was stifling. The exotic scent of sandalwood carried in the breeze creating aromatic dust clouds, covering everything with a dusting of fine sand.  Locals in brightly coloured headscarves chattered noisily competing with the burbling of rusty old pickup trucks filled with ripe watermelons. Malnourished dogs fought for fly encrusted scraps. A bead of sweat ran down my back pooling at the base of my spine. It felt vibrant and real; so unlike the world I had inhabited. I was no longer used to crowds. All my senses screamed, telling me to turn back, longing for the comfort of home.

I headed south to the edge of the Sahara desert. Everyone travelled by louage; a communal taxi whose suspension creaked and complained with the weight. Not surprisingly, the air conditioner did not work and the smell of sweat and rough tobacco was overpowering. The engine overheated every few miles. It did not seem to bother the locals who sat in the nearest coffee shack, sipping goat’s milk cappuccino. It took all day but we finally arrived at my destination: Matmata. The original Star Wars was filmed here and the dune sea; where C3PO and R2-D2 crashed, was close by.

I spent a week with the locals drinking Celtia beer and eating stews flavoured with dates and apricots. Shimmering in the distance, I could just make out hills of burnt umber and terracotta. The evenings were spent sitting alone staring at the night sky, the only sound coming from the crackling embers of the fire, or the occasional snort from a camel. The desert was vast. I felt shrunken and insignificant in such an empty place. The tag line from the film Alien echoed endlessly around my head: ‘In space, no one can here you scream.’ This was going to happen whether I liked it or not. I don’t think I have ever been more frightened in my life.

The sun rose early. It was time. I checked my supplies: plenty of water, dried meats and fruits. I persuaded an elderly Bedouin to take me out towards the hills. His dark eyes looked confused, perhaps wondering what this crazy Englishman was doing. We travelled all day; the scrawny camel seemingly oblivious to the heat. At least in the hills I could find shade. It felt so much like a dream; I wondered if I was hallucinating.

We parted at a watering hole. I was starting to panic. I felt sick with fear of the unknown. Would my schoolboy French be understood?

‘Retournerez-vous en trois semaines, S’il vous plait?’

I could see his puzzled look as a tear trickled down my cheek, its salty taste moistening my parched lips. Finally, I saw acceptance in his eyes and he laid his hand gently on mine.

‘Inshallah my friend. Inshallah.’

I could feel myself start to hyperventilate. My hands were shaking. The hot air burned my lungs and my vision blurred. I thought of the Bible, of Jesus going into the desert to challenge Satan. My own personal devil was out there waiting for me, mocking me. The fear gripped me turning my bowels to water.

‘Get on with it idiot,’ I murmured.

I could just make out the retreating Bedouin, his figure almost hidden by the heat haze. Taking a final sip of water, I walked into the desert.

****

October 26^th 1997

The repetitive jangling of the phone slowly seeped into my consciousness. Lighting a cigarette I stretched lazily, piecing together events from the night before. I shared a house with six friends, all graduates with good jobs and a penchant for the best things in life. We flew to Italy for Versace suits. Ate in the best restaurants. Coffee was from Columbia, olives from Kalamata. Work was hard; play was harder. The shape next to me snored gently, lost in her dreams. I couldn’t remember her name, or what she looked like. It didn’t matter. We both understood. Turning on the television I saw images if Diana, Princess of Wales. I remember discussing her death, over a bottle of fine wine and Tapas naturally, and how little it affected my life. I was wild, hedonistic, and I loved every minute of it. Finally, the phone stopped its incessant trilling.

‘Mike, it’s your auntie,’ Emma shouted up the stairs.

What in God’s name was my aunt phoning me for at this time on a Sunday morning? Grumbling, I staggered downstairs.

‘It’s your dad. They have taken him to Wigan infirmary.’

I moved on autopilot. What did she mean? Is he ill? An accident? I was panicking, running through every possible scenario a hundred times over. I drove my Range Rover far too fast, flashing my lights, ignoring the horns of outraged Sunday drivers. My uncle was waiting for me outside, leaning against a wall smoking. He never spoke, just shook my hand formally. He was from the old school. That’s the moment I knew. My father was dead.

The next few days felt like a series of sledgehammer blows. The formal identification ending with the mortician handing me Dad’s watch and St Christopher. Watching my Nanna sobbing into her lavender scented handkerchief when I told her Dad was dead.

I went to the funeral home to say goodbye. It seemed so artificial; almost like a film set.  Everyone talked in whispers; their eyes sympathetic. Dad was laid out amongst flowers and icons. He looked as though he was asleep.

‘I’m sorry dad. Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.’

I knew he could not answer me; he was gone. Leaning over the coffin, I kissed him gently on the forehead. That’s when I knew, really knew, what death meant. It was like kissing cold concrete.

The day of the funeral arrived. I was dreading it, but I needed to stay strong for Nan. The old church was packed, I felt proud to be my father’s son. I read the eulogy, struggling to keep my voice strong. Famous for his own brand of Indian cuisine I likened him to a vindaloo; hot, spicy, and never forgotten! My eyes stung as we left the church to the sound of my favourite hymn, Jerusalem.

The wake kept me busy. A steady stream of people offered sympathies and anecdotes. Well-wishers surrounded me the whole time yet I felt desperately lonely. I wondered about these people. Some I had not seen for years. Their lives had been touched for the briefest of moments, tomorrow things would continue as before. I did not want their sympathy. I wanted to turn back the clock. Everything was different now.

One week later, I said goodbye to Manchester and moved into the family home. Except it was no longer a home for a family. It felt like a mausoleum. The silence was overpowering. Dad’s presence was everywhere: His unwashed coffee cup still in the sink, a partially completed crossword, clothes in the linen bin, his toothbrush in the bathroom. Wandering around the house I touched pictures from my childhood. Mum, Dad, Granddad; all gone now. Memories cascaded through the generations tearing down my defences. That night I downed a bottle of Jack Daniels and slept in Dad’s bed, hugging his aftershave-scented pillow. I had the cruellest of dreams and woke up thinking my new reality was a nightmare. It took a moment to realise that this was the real world now.

I knew I could not go back to work. I returned the car, laptop and phone. All the trappings that meant so much became inconsequential. As often as I was sad, I was angry. I was only thirty; it seemed so unfair for my family to be dead. I spent my days staring through the window playing Dads favourite music and drinking bourbon. It felt like the tears would never end. Christmas came and went. All the gang invited me to their parent’s homes, but I wanted to be alone in my misery. There was no tree, tinsel, or turkey. No laughter or mince pies. I sat alone. Dinner was cold beans straight from the can and a bottle of Jack.

Early in the New Year, one of my best friends, Michelle, came round. I could tell something was wrong.

‘Annabelle’s got cancer.’

I could not believe it. Annabelle and I had grown up together. Got drunk together. Laughed and cried together. She was only twenty-seven.

The next day I drove to Christie hospital. I was dreading it because Mum had died there, and Annabelle was in the same ward. The same insidious smell; a cloying mixture of antiseptic and fear permeated the air. I was devastated. She told me she was frightened and sad she never married and had children. She asked me how I was coping. Terminally ill and still worried about me. Two weeks later Annabelle died. I carried her coffin feeling like Atlas with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I don’t think I have ever had a lower opinion of myself than that day.

I could feel my grief turning to anger. Everything made me angry. Old women stopping to gossip made me snarl. Car horns and kids spitting drove me into frenzy. I wandered around town furious at everybody and everything.

‘Spare some change mate?’

Without thinking, I mumbled something and carried on.

‘Yeh, yeh. They all say that,’ the homeless man shouted after me.

One comment was all it took. My anger had found an outlet. I screamed at the top of my voice. Ignoring the shocked looks of passersby, I dragged him from the shop doorway desperate for him to fight back. He collapsed like a rag doll, begging me not to hurt him. I knew at that moment I had changed. I had threatened someone vulnerable and I was disgusted with myself. Good manners and integrity were part of me and I had behaved appallingly.

That night I made my plan. A trip to the local council estate later and I was ready. I drew the curtains, grabbed the bourbon. Slowly I unravelled the small bag and looked at the powder inside. Carefully placing it on tin foil, I flicked my lighter, moving the flame beneath the wafer thin aluminium. The powder became a sweet smelling liquid and I inhaled deeply. Over and over, I ran the small black beetle around the tin foil before slipping into a sensual slumber. The heroin cradled me, calmed me. For the first time in months, I felt no pain.

The next morning I felt surprisingly well. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but a void had been filled. I went back to town feeling calmer and bought the largest portion of fish and chips I could find. The tramp was in the same doorway concentrating on his can of cheap cider. I saw him flinch and shrink into himself as I approached. Holding out the food as a peace offering, I said I was sorry. He never spoke just ate hungrily. I wanted to explain but words would not come. Instead, I gave him an envelope containing one hundred pounds. Wiping his greasy mouth on his filthy sleeve, he mumbled his thanks. Our eyes met for the briefest of moments, perhaps he understood my pain. I then realised I had given him money not because I cared, but to assuage my own guilt. Feeling miserable, I made my way home via the council estate.

Life settled into a routine. The daily walk to the estate, constantly on the lookout for the police. A hurried deal behind the shops or in the park. I was becoming paranoid and jumpy. I didn’t feel comfortable breaking the law, but it was the only way to deaden the pain. Everything else became irrelevant. Only heroin mattered. That innocent red flower from the Afghan foothills became my life. The gang visited often bringing sun dried tomatoes, pesto, and wine. We chatted as we always had. I said nothing of my dirty secret. Manchester and its bright lights had receded into the past.

March 2000

The millennium had been and gone. A new century, a time for hope they said. It passed me by. The house was empty, all the furniture and electronics sold or pawned. I lived in the en-suite shower room, the only room without a window. My paranoia only allowed me to leave the house in the relentless pursuit of heroin. It was littered with old tin foil, lighters and empty tins of custard. The drugs were destroying my stomach. I woke, curled up in the shower cubicle, and realised I didn’t know what day it was, or whether it was morning or evening. I only knew I had been there a week because of the amount of drugs I had taken. My stomach lurched and I vomited in the sink. The face in the mirror was unrecognisable. My hair was long and matted. I could count my ribs. I looked into my eyes and saw the homeless person I had assaulted two years ago. This could not be me. Death was staring back at me.

‘I am Michael Mccallister.’

‘I am Michael McCallister.’

I opened and closed my eyes hoping for something to change but it didn’t. This was who I was. I realised I had not thought of Dad in months. I was no longer grieving. There was no excuse. A fear so powerful took my breath away. I was no longer strong. Had I left it too late? Could I beat this? Gingerly I opened the door of the en-suite, the light hurting my eyes. I picked up the telephone and called my best friend.

‘Help me.’

September 2000

I smiled as I struggled to fasten my cufflinks and then tie a Windsor knot. I was definitely out of practice. Checking my reflection and picking lint off my new suit I realised I look normal. The last two and a half years had been a battle both physically and mentally. There are scars, but they are on the inside. Outwardly I looked the same, perhaps a few pounds lighter. I had changed though. My perspective was different. I was more tolerant.

The gang had amazed me. Within hours of my call, a plan had been put into place. I knew rehab rarely worked. The dealers wait outside the unit and the whole tragic cycle begins again. I needed to get away. The girls organised a new wardrobe, a haircut and shave. Flights were booked and traveller’s cheques organised. They stayed at my house for a week feeding me, supporting me and preparing me. Chris even volunteered to come with me, but this was something I had to do alone. The old Bedouin had picked me up after three weeks. I left the desert somehow stronger, the challenges of daily life easier to cope with.  I had conquered my demons. I checked my reflection one last time in the rear-view mirror of my new BMW. Smiling I squeezed the car into the line of commuters and rejoined society

From Withington to Wythenshawe.

September 2002.

That summer the Commonwealth games had descended on the city of Manchester with a carnival like atmosphere. Images of every success and disappointment were beamed around the world by the media. A roaring success, Team GB had done particularly well.

But this is not the games, and there are no television crews. We stragglers are the tortoises that the hares have long since passed. I stagger around the last corner, the finish line, the end of my journey in sight. The pain, like someone pouring sulphuric acid down my throat, sent waves of searing heat to my lungs turning my legs to jelly. Each breath felt as though it may be my last.

A final push through the pain. I had made it. The race completed, I lean against a moss covered wall as I chat with the nurses and other walkers, a smile hiding the fear I had felt moments ago. Looking around I see a motley crew, old and young together, each with their own story to tell.

.

February 14^th, 2002.

I remember looking up, feeling confused. The perspective was all wrong. Strange creatures with large heads on small bodies surround me. It felt like I was aboard a spaceship, kidnapped by aliens talking in a language I seemed to know yet couldn’t understand. There was a strange antiseptic smell, insidious and stifling. The room felt very bright, the light glaring from behind the creatures throwing them into shadow. One of the smaller creatures was rubbing an ice-cold gel on my chest. I sense she is female and feel her hand gently clasp mine. I realise they mean me no harm. Needles pierce my arms. I feel no pain.

‘Charging’.

‘All clear,’ the head alien shouts.

I know these words yet they are nonsensical. Why am I here? The gentle hand slips away. Two large rectangles fill my vision then contact my chest. A thousand knives penetrate my soul. I feel myself falling into an abyss, away from the spaceship, into a new dimension. I am not frightened; my angel is guiding me. Suddenly I understand where my journey will end. I feel no fear; I am free.

I awaken to the sound of teacups rattling. Slowly my eyes focus and I realise I am neither dead nor have been kidnapped by aliens. I am in Wythenshawe hospital’s intensive care unit; it says so on the wall. My body is a latticework of wires and needles that stop me moving.

‘Morning luv, cup of tea?’

Two minutes later tea and toast are presented to me. I was starving and desperate for a drink. The nurse must have seen the enquiring look in my eyes.

‘Doctor will be round later luv.’

I knew I was not well, but felt strangely detached from the situation. I just wanted to get back to my life. Work hard, play harder; that was my motto. Hopefully they would let me go soon. Until then I would concentrate on the rather pretty Philippino nurse who tended to my every need. I was almost enjoying the attention. The doctor soon put paid to my frivolous attitude. Expecting one doctor but seeing a tag team of them approaching my bed still didn’t filter through my consciousness. I patiently went through my history answering a multitude of questions, telling white lies here and there when questioned about my party lifestyle.

‘So, how do you feel about the transplant?’

‘What transplant,’ was my simple reply.

The alien chief looked around obviously angry about something. He sat on my bed and put his hand on mine.

‘Michael, you are here for a heart transplant.’

It was at that precise moment the mirror shattered. I felt my life break into ten thousand fragments. How could this be? I was fine a few days ago. I’m as strong as an ox. The Alpha male. I felt ashamed. I could feel a salty tear crawl down my face. His words became intelligible, my life was broken and no glue could put it back together.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of tests. I was constantly examined by a huge array of specialists. Life on the ward became routine. It felt like living in a bubble, a surreal sterile world inhabited by aliens and their futuristic technology. There were four of us in my section, all frightened but unwilling to admit it. We swapped anecdotes, stories, and got to know each other’s friends and families. The twilight hours were the worst. The ward was quiet. It was peaceful yet my mind would not let me sleep. I remember, even though surrounded by other people, feeling desperately lonely. My warrior personality constantly fought the demons which had been set free. Some nights I would beat them back, others they would ravage my psyche leaving me empty and exhausted. It was during one such mental battle when an alarm shrieked from the next bed, nearly sending me into heart failure. The quiet dream like state was shattered. Nurses and doctors swung into action like a well-oiled machine. They had seen it all before. We all watched on with a morbid curiosity. A face, no more than six feet away, contorted with pain. His eyes, full of fear, bored into me pleading for help. I saw deep into his soul. I watched the spark fade, a last flicker of sad acceptance. He knew it was over. The monitor flat- lined leaving a sickening monotone. Harry, my newfound friend, was dead.

Watching Harry die galvanised me. Seeing the pain and sorrow on his wife’s face, his young kids distraught, made me realise exactly how much I had to lose. My housemates and friends were fantastic, each bringing a little bit of themselves on their visits. Chris the ultimate organiser, made sure the gang had a rota. I was never left alone. Emma bought an old Japanese massager to rub my back. Matt brought in his lava lamp to chill me out. I knew I was on the road to recovery; I wanted a cigarette! I tried every trick in the book to cadge, cajole or even bribe people. It was no use, those clever aliens were on to me in a flash. Days went by, each bringing a more elaborate plan. Finally, they allowed me to wander round the hospital gardens to get some fresh air. This was my chance. I hobbled down the corridor dragging my drip-stand behind me. Bypassing the gardens, I stashed the drip-stand in a cleaning cupboard, went straight to the main entrance, and flagged down a taxi. Within five minutes I was stood in a newsagents in Wythenshawe, drip held high, my backside hanging out of the hospital gown. I remember there were some very strange looks from shoppers as I felt the warming reassurance of Marlboro light.

Six weeks later my consultant pronounced me a medical miracle. I should be dead he proclaimed. I gave my permission and became a lab rat; all the trainee aliens poked and prodded me for days reviewing my case. I remember enjoying all the attention.

The day finally arrived when I was to be released. It felt strange. This sterile bubble had been my home for the last eight weeks. All the gang were there, carrying bags and a Santa’s sack of medication. My Philipiino nurse cried. I felt like I had won the World Cup. They wheeled me out of the ward amongst a wave of smiles and tears. I saw the main entrance and stopped the parade. I gingerly pushed myself out of the wheelchair and walked outside. I was important, symbolic of my recovery. Even the sun gave me a spring smile. I was free.

October 2002.

It was done. The bright red post-box gobbled the innocuous manila envelope containing a cheque for seven hundred pounds to the British Heart Foundation. I had completed my walk from my spiritual home in Withington to Wythenshawe, where I lost so much yet found myself. Abe stands lounging against the wall sneaking a crafty fag before his wife returns.

‘How’s it going mate?’

‘Not bad Abe, plodding on, as you do.’

‘Tell me about it,’ his mind already moving on.

I smiled. Six months of hell analysed, surmised, and forgotten in a dozen words. We all have our own stories I realised. I know people look at me. Watch me wander slowly around the village. They don’t know my story; I don’t tell them. They know nothing of the battle I fought and won. I am tempted by the smell of vinegar splashed on battered cod, but my life is different now. I am weaker physically, but have a mental toughness I didn’t know I possessed. The mirror is back together, glued with a cocktail of drugs and stubbornness. I now appreciate my life more and the importance of family and friends. I am more tolerant these days. A beautiful day or an act of kindness mean much more now. This is the end of a chapter. I look towards Withington, mentally closing the door behind me. Ignoring the chip shop, I start the slow walk home.

Latest WIP from fat boy.

Hmm,

can’t write,can’t think.Need to call Dynorod.So,paint stupid boy.Attempting to unblock a large mental turd and getting nowwhere fast.

Last week,I stuck to a thousand calories all week so I could have a pizza Friday evening.A good balance.Since said lovely pizza again I have stuck to one thousand calories per day.So how the flying f*ck can I be 4llbs heavier this morning.Hate being ill.Bah!

Villanelle.

BRIDLED.

A world in disarray.

Nations collide,a sickening sound.

People will die today.

Verdun,Mons,skies slate grey.

Bullet and bomb pound

a world in disarray.

A smiling bride,a fresh bouquet.

Soldier Tom.Dover bound.

People will die today.

An onslaught,a bullet astray.

Tears through Tom.Soldier downed.

A world in disarray.

Hunger,lice,feet of clay.

Shivering behind shrunken mound.

People will die today.

Trampled primrose.Time to pray.

A desperate cry.Drowned.

A world in disarray.

People will die today.

Ode to Stephen Hawkins.

SADDLED

She enters like spring breeze.Late.

Polishes my fusty study.Must pass muster.

Moves my breakfast plate.

Never time for debate.

She wipes my chin,keeps my tie straight.

Her smile bright,yet lacklustre.

I am desperate to talk;extrapolate.

My robotic voice carries no weight.

She is Laura Ashley,lavender,a country fete.

An elegant swan.Ne’er a fluster.

I plead for help.I must collate.

What do I see?Respect or hate?

Like a raptor my mind takes flight.

Sheding our singular dimension,our planetry cluster.

Free from leaden limb I move towards the light.

My intellect entwined with metaphysical plight.

The Lucasian professor.Newton.Einstein.Me.

I can be Cain if not able.An academic knuckle duster.

I am the oak,you in my lee.

Now,is it pity I see?

2008-The review.

Senior moments tend to kick in at a time like this,so this review may be patchy,somewhat innacurate and possibly rambling.For this I make no apologies,it’s my review in my mind!

Nan got to the grand age of 93 before we finally had to move her in with us.A bad fall at home made her realise she could no longer cope alone.We converted the front room to give her some space.Unfortunately she can no longer move so we contacted the dreaded social services to seek advice and help.Somewhat surprisingly they were fantastic.Beds,commode,mechanical hoist,district nurses to name a few swung into action.There were a couple of teething problems but to be fair they brought all the strands together with remarkable efficiency.So well done them.Nans had a few bouts of serious illness and we thought we had lost her several times but she has pulled through.I know she is fed up,unable to move,having to be washed,dressed and rely 100% on us to do everything.Naturally we don’t mind,but I get the feeling she will give up eventually.Hopefully she is with us for a long time and I am happy to dedicate myself to looking after her.A special,sensitive elderly person deserves nothing less.

My own health his been up and down as usual.Still feel crap about half the time and spend a fair amount of time in bed.The year brought two operations.Firstly ablation to try and cure my crazy abnormal heart.Didn’t do much if i am honest.They also told me I was in danger of sudden death and needed a double pacemaker fitting.Oops,that was a long wait between them telling me I could drop dead and the actual fitting.Two months expecting to keel over at any moment! Fitted it was,the op was ok although being conscious while they cut you open was interesting.Don’t actually feel that much different but at least I have a safety net.On the whole my health hasn’t deteriorated an,so in that respect the year has been a success.

The year also brought A103,the first course in my degree.If I am honest this has been a huge positive in my life.Tortuous,difficult yet ultimately satisfying.It’s structured approach has filtered through to other aspects of my life,shooting painting etc.Indirectly A103 brought about a new phenomenon to me;blogs and cyberbuddies.

While Googling one day looking for help re A103,I came across what at first I assumed was a website.No,this was a blog.Although I knew of them I had never really read them or had an interest in writing one.I found myself checking this blog daily and eventually left a comment.To which I got a reply!How cool is that methinks.Pretty soon a cyber conversation developed and not only did I start my own blog unintentionally I had found a cyberbuddy/techno guru/mentor who was doing the same course.Now,I check my e-mail,Facebook and the Allys blog.She has guided me ,supported me,advised me and generally done everything a “real world” friend would do.Perhaps to a greater extent.I have been thinking recently,should you ever meet your cyberbuddy?An interesting thought perhaps?We all judge the people we know on looks,accent,social standing etc etc.A cyberbuddy is perhaps the purest form of friendship?So,do you ever meet your buddy?Would that spoil the magic? Watch this space.

On the whole the year I suppose has been reasonable.Health is fairly stable.Degree is going well.My love for art has been re-ignited.I have even done a few paintings for people which have been well recieved(yours better by hanging on th wall Miss T,not stuck behind a cupboard)There are things I would change and at some point I need to address some personal issues,at least i know what they are now and have defined what I need.More importantly I have realised what is missing in my life,before it was there but somehow intangible.So 2009,what do I need to achieve.

1.Stop smoking properly,instead of on/off and kidding myself.

2.Be more confident,a small beer belly does not make me grotesque.

3.Work like mad,draw,paint,shoot.Life is short and precious.Enjoy every day and learn something new.

4.Prioritise(nuff said)

5.SMILE

Tonight I raise a toast to all,and wish you all inner peace and love.May your dreams come true.

Filakia