A Glasgow Airport terminal had a car driven into it earlier and they're linking it to the London terrorism attempts. One of the men in the blazing car – which contained propane gas – was wrestled to the ground by members of the public. One (not sure if it was the same one) is badly burned. And is currently getting NHS treatment. He was wearing a suicide belt.
Our national threat level is up to 'critical' – the highest. A security and terrorism expert on BBC News 24 is currently saying that for the level to be raised is 'extraordinary' and that the security services "know something is going to happen". Wow, can't wait to get back on to the trains and buses on Monday to traverse this city I love. Hmm... brilliant. We don't normally see police officers walking the streets in this area but they were out there tonight.
Some people have said, on news reports, that they aren't bothered by the attempts, but how can you not be the slightest bit worried? More people will obviously be concerned as this latest incident was not in London. I recall when 7/7 happened, some people I spoke to who live far from London actually seemed disinterested because it was all happening down/up here.
As for those responsible, well, what can one say about them? What possible reason can be good enough to justify the attempted murders? What kind of humans are they? And why? Rushdie? Blair? Brown? Bush? What? Whatever their reasons, why target innocent people? Madness.
This news has shifted the other big stories off the front pages. The country's still flooding badly, with more rain forecast. The poor people whose homes are half under water must be wondering what on earth is going on with the weather. S and I were near the Thames today and, in the rain, the water levels looked especially high, and it wasn't high tide. The torrential rain has effectively killed several people over the last week or so. What country is this again?!
And there was a 40-car pile-up in Kent today, caused by fog and rain. One person died. Again, what is happening with the weather? It is the middle of summer. Isn't it?
So, my blog isn't suitable for those under 17. Quite pleased about that.
It's based on the use of expletives (f*cking, hell, f*ck and punch). I don't see how 'punch' can be that offensive. What if I was talking about a summer party, where I had created a lovely, fruity drink? Hmm?
I've managed to kill two-and-a-half hours since my alarm woke me. I've sorted out the rabbits, had breakfast and sat at the computer (with my head slumped on to the desk for a while). I'm so, so tired. My head feels heavy and there are dark circles under my eyes.
When I spoke to sleep therapist P briefly on Tuesday (after she cancelled my upcoming appointment), she seemed to think I was getting enough sleep! Unbelievable.
I know people who need eight hours of quality sleep, minimum, and feel awful if they get less. Not everyone is the same. Anyway, I didn't sleep well last night – had weird dreams and I woke easily.
What to do today? Goodness knows.
It goes without saying that I am incredibly, deeply relieved that this story didn't make worse headlines. When I woke, it sounded like a smallish story (well, relatively speaking) but the details of what was in that car make terrifying reading (nails, gas cylinders and 60 litres of petrol). Explosives officers manually defused the bomb. Imagine doing that as a job. Heavens.
They've just identified another suspect car in an underground car park in central London, near Hyde Park, which has now been evacuated...
Apparently, according to the BBC just now London is on "heightened terrorist alert" as 07/07/07 approaches. It was an ambulance crew that noticed smoke coming from the car; intelligence didn't crack this one, which is a bit scary. Someone I've just spoken to for work has said he reckons it's all a bit coincidental what with Brown newly in power. He works in IT but was more cynical than an old hack!
I'm watching News 24 on my computer. They keep stressing how the public "must be vigilant". It's horrible.
Update: so, we're under 'severe threat' – the second highest level, which means an attack "is likely". Bloody hell.
Yes, that's how my head feels. Mind you, that could be due to the hayfever/coldy thing I have at the moment.
I could barely move when I woke up this morning. In fact, I didn't – I lay there for 40 minutes (yes, yes, breaking the Sleep Programme rules). I was semi-awake and semi-conscious. The headache that plagued me all of yesterday had gone but my limbs were heavy, crying out for an extra hour.
Anyway, some good news – my little rabbit is back home, but is under supervision as she is not completely recovered. She's a feisty little bundle.
Kung fu was back on the agenda yesterday, which definitely helped me to sleep. I've explained to N, the instructor, what's been going on with me – he has given me some sage advice and has been very empathetic.
However, I have lost another pound in weight, possibly due to the exercise, I guess. I'm eating better, thanks to my dearest parents cooking me lunch daily this week, so it's odd. Good old stress, eh? The best diet in the world. Or the worst.
My sleep therapist, P, just called. My long – long – awaited appointment, which was meant to be next week, has been cancelled. She apologetically told me that she has a hospital appointment. I tried to sound all, "Oh, OK, that's fine. Sorry you have to go to hospital."
I am shaky now.
My stomach feels like a washing machine.
She says I can have a chat to her on the phone for about 20 minutes today. I haven't seen her since the start of May. It's July next week.
I have four weeks of this sleep programme left; I was holding on to my appointment – a light at the end of the tunnel. It was my carrot. Now it is a stick. And I feel like I'm fucking crumbling.
So, what does this mean? Anyone?
In my dream last night, I was wearing contact lenses. I had no idea how they got there (I wear glasses for driving and the computer and cannot bear the thought of wearing contacts... All that eye-touching – uggggh).
Anyway, the lenses were causing my eyes to feel dry and uncomfortable. I had to use a magnifying mirror to find them as they kept swimming around my eyeballs.
The relief when I managed to get the dratted things out was immense.
I woke with a headache.
...and it has my lovely "recommended by Observer magazine" M&S dinner in it, half-cooked. The fucker.
It has cooked sufficiently to let the aroma waft everywhere and for my stomach to begin to eat itself.
I know that NMJ had oven problems recently. Bloody hell. What is going on?
I am hungry and have had to order a fucking bloody pizza – £10, minimum order etc – because the fucking fridge (still functioning, thank heavens) is full of frozen, oven-ready things. Bugger and bollocks.
I said, BUGGER! AND BOLLOCKS!!!!
There are no flights arriving at, or taking off from, Heathrow at the moment – the world's busiest airport. The last time I recall that happening was 7/7.
The reason given is that there has been a gas leak on a perimeter road. Hmm. The M4 motorway, which passes close by, has been closed, too.
Since a fortnight ago, or so, there has been a very strong police presence on the Tubes and trains in London. I mentioned it to a friend who said it was probably because we are, again, under severe threat from certain people due to Blair going and that awful anniversary approaching.
As Tony Blair left Downing Street today, and as new PM Gordon Brown stood outside making his first speech, I felt oddly nervous. There is a funny vibe in the air today.
The bad things that make me somewhat enraged. I am:
- Annoyed that my pet rabbit is still ill and in the hospital.
- Annoyed that the first vet we saw gave me advice that could have killed the bunny. And his advice cost hundreds of pounds and made Albert suffer. I wish to shake the stupid, mercenary cretinous wanker until his teeth fall out.
- Annoyed that I am so tired I cannot say the words 'kung-fu' let alone attend class.
- Annoyed that my GP changed some medication I'm on without asking, "because the PCT said it was too pricey and anyway, it was only prescribed by the hospital because your consultant went out to dinner with a drug rep". Er, don't bother calling me to discuss, eh? Oh, and, dear GP, you have libelled someone at a very, very good hospital. Fucking twat.
- Annoyed that my entire life is dictated by the Sleep Thing (my social life is a joke right now).
- Annoyed that I feel sick all the time due to stress – why can't I just be one of those people who doesn't care? I've lost weight and have to keep buying new clothes.
The good things that help:
- My boss has let me work at home for this week and possibly next, which means I save three hours of my life a day as well as travel costs, and am less tired at the end of the day. Well, relatively.
- My parents live fairly nearby and will cook me lovely lunches and dinners some days this week. Left to my own devices, I'd be subsisting on M&S sarnies. Not very inspiring, or healthy enough.
- The wonderful vet who is now tending to Albert says she is bright today but there is a mass of something in her digestive system that needs to be eradicated.
- It is sunny.
- I found the receipt for a recently-purchased but damaged Laura Ashley bed throw, so will go in today at lunchtime and give as good as I get to the man who called me "stupid" as I walked out of the shop on Saturday. (The throw has a hole in it – he refused to give me a credit note, was as charming as a Glastonbury toilet, and insulted me as I walked out of the store. Utter wanker.)
It never rains... cetra cetra...
My first notable incident after dragging myself out of bed this morning was to walk into the corner of a knee-height open wooden drawer as I got dressed. Normally, when one bashes oneself, there's a bit of a sting and that's that. But no, I managed to split the skin. Large globules of blood leaked out. It's not a huge wound but it was enough to take my breath away and make my eyes water.
After plastering up my knee and getting the LK Bennett dress ready to be posted back to the shop (it's hanging off me), I went to the GP, who said I need to have a lump – probably a cyst – under my armpit aspirated (needled and analysed). She didn't seem too concerned but said I should have it checked out.
Next stop was the vet, to collect Albert, who still isn't quite right but was getting stressed by the cacophony of other animals there, which obviously wasn't helping matters. I've brought her home to relax in her own environment, and am keeping everything crossed that she eats and performs certain bodily functions pronto.
As I left the veterinary surgery, the rain was pouring from a grey sky. Added to that was a sight that always makes your heart sing: a police officer hovering by your vehicle.
So, the van-driving Peeler stood by my car, which was parked next to a vet ambulance, and watched unblinking as I ran towards her with Albert in her blue carrier dangling from my left hand and a bag of medication in my right hand. She asked: "Is the vehicle yours?"
Er, no. I'm just running towards you with a sick animal in tow in the pissing rain because I really, really like coppers with nothing better to do than fuck up my day.
I was tempted to argue the toss with the woman but took one look at her wasp-chewing face and knew it would just be a waste of my time (and there was also the risk that Albie would get wetter and more stressed).
Officer Compassion Bypass glanced at me, her face as warm as a statue in a wintry graveyard, and said, in a monotone: "You're on the public pathway," before thrusting a sodden, sodding penalty notice thing into my hand. Bet the only place she'd secure a kiss would be Glasgow...
Hmph, that's £100 down the drain – and for what?! The place I parked was next to another vehicle – the kerb was even lowered so that cars could mount it! I gave her a look that probably won't have had much effect on her conscience but possibly might have made her feel something for a nanosecond. I wish I'd taken a photo of where my car was. Damn – £100! I could have appealed. Or bought a new dress to replace the baggy but beautiful LK Bennett number.
Anyway, here we are at home: me and my two house rabbits. My knee's throbbing and I've got lots of work to do. My day, however, will be deemed a major success if Albert produces a dropping or 10. And I never thought I'd say that...
My little eight-month-old rabbit Albert developed a lung infection (pneumonia) while we were away working and is now at the veterinary hospital. She had been staying with my other rabbit at my parents' place. Poor little thing, she was panting and hadn't eaten or drank all day. Classic signs of pain in a rabbit.
Not eating is very serious in a rabbit, although no one else (apart from the nurse I spoke to, who had mercifully treated Albert previously) seemed to have a bloody clue. Vets are not all trained in rabbit care and treat them as they would small cats and dogs.
I'm glad I did my homework instead of relying on professionals, who, I have come to experience, are rarely founts of as much knowledge as they should be. Rabbits are exotic creatures and you cannot apply principles from treating cats and dogs to a different species, for fuck's sake.
The vet patently had no idea that when a rabbit doesn't eat, its gut goes into stasis and it often dies. Fucking hell. It's basic knowledge. Why he didn't check her for dehydration and recommend force-feeding and a drip is beyond me. Idiot. That, plus the lung infection, would have been a significant strain on the poor animal. Grrrr.
I spent my first hour in bed last night weeping, which was nice. Worry about Albert. Exhaustion. Stress. All the very best things in life.
It's obvious that my tiredness is having an effect on those around me but there isn't much, if anything, I can do. Except apologise for having this problem. It's not as though I can have a nice long rest and be all fresh and bouncy. I feel as though I'm getting to the end of my tether.
It is so good to be home. I love home.
I've been to several cities across the UK for work recently and it has been excruciatingly exhausting for me. Some of the trips were one-dayers, where we went to the destination and returned the same evening, and others – most recently – involved hotel stays.
I'm a bit of a fusspot when it comes to hotels. I like cleanliness and comfort. It's not much to ask. But the places we stayed in were distinctly uninspiring – paper-thin walls, questionable bed covers (I didn't want to touch them), rogue hairs in the bathroom and bog-standard buffet breakfast.
As for the places visited, well, they all melded into one amorphous Where Are We Now? after a while. You'd hear different accents, notice varying attitudes and levels of friendliness, but there's only so much to differentiate places when they come so thick and fast. Certainly, the hotels were Stepford-esque in their uniform blandness and cheap, nasty minimalism.
Some cities were noticeably more moneyed and boasted shiny city centres and shiny people, whereas you could see the generations of struggle etched in the faces of others where "adversity", as they put it, was high on their life agenda. It was an interesting assignment, but I struggled to keep going, as I felt so awful.
I worked on the journey home, stopping occasionally to watch dark clouds hovering and raindrops spattering across the train windows like sperm racing towards an ovum, as the train rocketed south.
I also peeped at the laptop of the young woman seated next to me. She was writing a list, a long list, of things like: 'have bath with Jo Malone oils', 'buy [insert list of luxury items] for new flat', 'plan picnic with lovely food and drink', ' go horse-riding', 'sleep', 'shower', 'wake up', 'have lunch [insert name of posh restaurant] with [insert name of friend, relative], 'buy [insert designer-label] clothes for [event]'.
The taxi home from King's Cross was quick – it was a new, spotless black cab complete with friendly driver. The flat was fairly tidy. There was a pile of post waiting, including a card indicating (I think) that a beautiful dress I ordered from LK Bennett in the sale – the last one available – had arrived and was waiting at the Post Office. My credit card bill and the rest of my post are unopened next to me. I slept well last night.
Been to Newcastle, Glasgow and back to London, all in the space of two-and-a-half days. At least 1,200 miles.
Sitting back in my chair in my home, I feel as though the world has finally stopped whizzing past my head. It's great to be home. I have been feeling unbelievably ill with tiredness. Literally sick.
My own bed, my own bathroom, my things. Lovely.
I barely slept.
I was gnashing my teeth all night. My mouth tasted appalling this morning.
I feel like a jelly. My hands are shaking. My heart is thudding.
And I have lots of work to do before heading to Newcastle and Glasgow for work. Long train journeys on which I cannot sleep.
Don't even have the energy to scream...
This stupid tiredness is shoving my moods all over the place, into this corner and that hole. That sort of thing. I think the sleep stuff is the cause. The lack of sleep is being helped lots – lots – by the tablets but I am not sleeping for long enough (due to my strict regime). I still feel the deficit. I am in the red, sleep-wise.
Confusion – well, something underlying – is plaguing me tonight. I feel odd and sad. Tiredness? Hmm. Possibly. Maybe. Who knows? I'm not sure I do. I'm listening to Massive Attack's Protection now. It's beautifully melancholy: "I stand in front of you and take the force of the blow..." However, it doesn't match the exquisiteness of Unfinished Sympathy. Not much does.
I was exhausted after my last kung fu session. My limbs now ache with heaviness and there is a darkish mood simmering in my head. It was one of those days where lethargy coloured my abilities, such as they are.
Where are the endorphins now? They've gone, gone, gone. They've buggered off. I'm meant to do some yoga or t'ai chi (as prescribed by P six weeks ago) but I haven't got round to it. What an idiot (me, not P).
It has been very humid in London for the past two days. The air has weight. A deep breath does not refresh your lungs sufficiently, not in the heart of the City. The rain, when it comes, is hard but brief. I've carried a raincoat, umbrella, and had to wear or carry a cardigan as the office can be cold when the air conditioning is switched on.
So, I end up like a bag lady with all my bits and pieces; my skin glows uncomfortably from the strain and heat. If the newsstand people thrust free papers at me, I'm done for, co-ordination-wise. It's too challenging. I'm never quite sure where my train ticket is in such circumstances.
This weather drains me. I feel like a slug that has had salt poured on to it (I have never done such a thing but can imagine what happens...).
I wish for a dramatic storm, for the electricity cloaked in the clouds to make supercharged connections and create the biggest, most beautiful sparks that nature can manage. Come on.
OK, OK, so some say Father's Day is a commercial piece of poo. But I do love my dad. Any excuse to buy him a present is fine by me. He and my mum deserve far more than I could give them.
One of the most difficult things in in my life is conveying to selected others how wretched this sleep disorder makes me feel. The next most difficult thing is trying not to let its effects show, which usually applies in work situations. Sometimes I succeed.
It's not just feeling tired.It's not something that a couple of good nights' sleep will solve.Its not something you can relax out of.
It is debilitating. It is depleting. It is distressing. It is frustrating. It is hellish. It is all-encompassing and touches every area of your life. Sometimes life is such a strain that you wonder what the point is. You are a walking zombie. You are lucky that car drivers are more alert than you are. You cry on the way to work. Kindness can make you melt or make you rigid.
You have no capacity, no resources, no buffers, no energy to cope with everyday things. (But you do, somehow.) You want to scream. Exercise – kung fu – makes me sleep, but ironically, when uber-tired, I am so mentally absent that I feel I don't get much out of it bar more frustration and the fear that I probably hold up the rest of the class with my half-hearted, half-remembered moves.
Insomnia is – I am realising more and more – a condition that deserves more respect and treatment than most people deign to give it. Including my GP, who told me that just lying there would be OK. The fucking, fucking, fucking, smug idiot. "Lying there and resting gives you 80-90 per cent of what you get through sleep. Don't worry about it."
Fuck off. I feel like death warmed up, have nearly crashed my car, and you tell me, doctor, not to fucking worry? ARGH. And don't lie to me. I am not an idiot. I have a degree in psychology, and yes, I know a bit about sleep. Do not fob me off. You fuckwit. Sometimes the NHS stinks.
I do not tell people about the sleep problem indiscriminately. I try to be discerning and only do so when necessary – such as to explain why I am not drinking alcohol – at a party a few months ago.
Sometimes, apropos of nothing, I just click with someone and feel able to share the experience. Those in this second category do seem to genuinely understand and care, which shocks and delights me, making me want to hug them.
The others tend to do one of the following:
a) tell me how tired they are (I have no words to adequately describe how incredibly maddening and insulting this is).
b) look pseudo-sympathetic but give the impression that you are somehow wimpish. This is usually accompanied by them changing the subject or looking over your shoulder, as happened at a couple of events earlier this summer. Those incidents put me off socialising with certain people for the time being at least. I cannot be arsed.
c) offer solutions such as "drink chamomile tea" (hmm, yes, never tried that one)... but at least the category 'c' people are trying to help, which is refreshing.
I can't – and don't – expect those who haven't suffered from insomnia to know what it's like. How could they? I wouldn't wish insomnia on anyone, (except perhaps the woman who shafted me and slandered me at work at Easter). But I do expect grown-up humans to have enough nous to not say trite things and to at least acknowledge that not sleeping well for months... years... might be bad news.
S's birthday meal, which was meant to be at a restaurant that I booked months ago, was cancelled and converted to having pizza in the spare bedroom. It is an attic room with a wide view of the sky. I must admit I was grateful to not have to dress up and trek to Piccadilly, knowing that my curfew loomed and that wine was a no-no. It wouldn't have been much fun for either of us, and S, who has seen me insane with tiredness this week, didn't mind at all. Having pizza delivered and doing nothing except watch the sky with the radio on in the background, was a godsend. Being out with me semi-comatose would have been such fun...
Earlier, I had spent most of the afternoon clearing out my two w
ardrobes of clothes I haven't worn for a while, then lay on the bed upstairs, unable to move. I took painkillers as my body ached so much. I tried not to sleep (the radio was on, to keep me awake) but suspect I may have lapsed into a micro-sleep. If I did indeed commit a sleep programme sin, it couldn't have been terribly deep as I still felt drained when S came into the room and mooted the pizza/sky-watching plan.
Have to say, I am a) either slipping from the demographic at which BB is aimed or b) BB is exceptionally bad this year.
Usually, there are one or two people who engage me and make me almost fervent that they deserve to win. Nadia, for example, and Shilpa in the celebrity version. And then there were proper villains, such as Makosi, Maxwell, Saskia and Grace. This year? Hmm, not sure.
Last night, I watched the programme from the bit where gurning Davina introduced more men to the house. Predictably, the lobotomised twins imitated goldfish, Charley leapt on to one of the incomers, wrapping her legs around his waist within five seconds, and all the females, bar Carole and Tracey, screamed like idiots.
The most amusing part for me was the eviction of that egotist Shabnam "I've had a blast" woman. Dearie me. All she could talk about in the house was wanting to get "a deal". I'll give her a deal if she shuts the eff up. How desperate and wannabe-esque can a person be? She interests me not, and frankly, I will not buy anything that puts her on its cover in an attempt to make me buy it.
She took an age to leave the house, telling everyone she "loved" them and promised to "look after" them (?!). It was deeply embarrassing to watch. During her studio interview, during which she went on and on about "having a blast" and "having energy", there was an uncomfortable lack of reaction. No one laughed at what she obviously reckoned were fabulous jokes. No one cared much.
Some serendipitous and strange things have happened lately. In the last week, I've bumped into/heard from three friends (separately) who I had last seen at least 12 years ago. They are all from an era of my life that brings forth nostalgia and makes me feel grown-up because of the passage of time. The latest one was an ex-colleague going home on the train this evening – he was a thoroughly decent individual then, and still is now. Oddly, I know all three from the same place.
I've exchanged details with the trio and hope to meet up soon, so we can recall those heady days of unbridled energy and a large capacity for alcohol and several nights out in a row. Now, two of them are parents.
My tipple was always a black Russian. I cannot even sniff one now following an incident in a certain night club when I was 23 and the fresh air hit me after I downed eight of them. Ugh. I recall thinking, as consciousness faded in and out like a Belisha beacon as my head slumped on to the bar, that this was no way to die, that my parents would be deeply ashamed and upset, and that my face would be on the front of the newspaper for which I worked.
Aside from these chance meetings, I have worked like a mule. S, his colleague and I have been working in Liverpool, a city I last visited in 2005. The people are, on the whole, either fabulous, gregarious souls who could talk the legs off several donkeys, or simply your average Joes and Janes. Every town has its characters but the Scousers – some of them – are peculiarly and particularly funny and interesting.
Luck struck here, too, as we inadvertently met people who were interconnected with some we had met while travelling to other towns (one is very well known, which was a bonus). It was exceptionally weird. There is definitely something magnetic in the air. (Yesterday, I even read my tarot cards for the first time in years, as I felt so affected. They made me smile.)
But, this morning at breakfast, burdened with lack of sleep and exhaustion so deep I could barely speak, I sat alone watching the rain cascade down the wide, cold Liverpudlian hotel windows. The water streamed diagonally across the glass like furious tears. It was grey outside and I was grey. I matched Liverpool. It was 7.45am or so, and my work companions were still in their bedrooms, asleep. I, of course, had to get up early due to my sleep programme. I had not slept at all well and felt ill. I picked my way through the cooked breakfast. The best bit was the strong, black tea.
My tiredness is all-encompassing and I am, at times, made mad with it. I feel, on occasion, that I cannot possibly do another thing. But I do. So, I must be stronger than I think.
I am angry – again.
Just read this story about older people being treated horrifically by their so-called nearest and dearest. It's not really news to me but it makes my blood boil. When I wrote an article about the way those above the normal working age are treated in some of this country's hospitals, by some of this country's 'dedicated angels', I received feedback from readers that made me weep with fury and sadness. But for families to act with such cruelty, too? Madness.
What is wrong with some people? Why do the older members of so-called 'society' receive so little respect in the UK? How can we treat our older relatives or those being cared for, or who just have the cheek to become a little infirm or frail, with so little regard?
It's unbearable. Sometimes human beings make me sick.
A Glasgow Airport terminal had a car driven into it earlier and they're linking it to the London terrorism attempts. One of the men in the blazing car – which contained propane gas – was wrestled to the ground by members of the public. One (not sure if it was the same one) is badly burned. And is currently getting NHS treatment. He was wearing a suicide belt.
