“Light the blue touch paper, and retreat…”
I don’t remember the Ugly Sisters’ names, don’t even know if they have names. I am not originally from These Parts. The only panto I’ve ever seen was “Aladdin”.
In this blog, there are a lot of Ugly Sisters. Two of them are twins. Their names are Anger, and Bitterness. And damn! but those girls are ugly.
They have another sister. She’s called Passion. In most stories, Passion is young, and slim, and Hollywood beautiful. Sometimes, she’s badly dressed, and wears specs, and/or braces on her teeth. It’s just for show, you understand. The bad clothes and the glasses and the braces are simply props, which Passion loses around a third of the way through the story.
Not this story. In this one, Passion is middle-aged. Fat. Frumpy, in a way that just ain’t going to change. She may not have specs on, but that’s because she’s put them down somewhere…somewhere she’s forgotten.
There are few things as angry, bitter, and all-round horrid as an individual in a rage with themselves (1). Add a twist of mental health problems, and a big fat slug of post-medication obesity, and you’re reaping an emotional whirlwind the size of a MidWestern tornado.
In other words, grab the pet carrier, flask of tea, and the radio, and head for your emotional basement. Now.
I recently started counselling. Ultimately, I’m sure it will do me good. Short term, though, it’s helping dig up all those stinky, pesky thought-corpses which I try and leave buried: for my own good, and that of everyone around me.
Stinking corpse-thoughts like: “Why didn’t you resist the urge to stuff your face when they put you on that medication?” (2) Or: “Why can’t you put your mind to shifting the excess weight, now you’re no longer on those meds?” Or “Why do you sometimes answer the words ‘How are you?’ with how you actually are? You know it’s just “Hello”, dressed up in a not-to-be-answered question.”
Seriously, Great Britain, get another greeting. “Morning!” is a good one. Unless the person saying it is just off a night shift, it’s undoubtedly true: it IS morning. And you, and they, can supply the missing word “Good”, without any need to discuss whether it really is a good one. Plus, a whinge about the weather is not only acceptable, it is utterly British to do so.
Speaking of whinging, that’s enough for one day.
(1) Damn the English language anyway, for its lack of useful pronouns.
(2) Not all medications have this side effect, nor does everyone get this particular side effect. It’s also better to be fat than dead.