annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


Day 270

Better than it has been. I got the Philippa Perry book about therapy, Couch Fiction, and half way through I realised I've never had *therapy*, just counselling, so I'm going to go for it and just deciding that perked me up quite a bit. The next stage is finding a therapist but I have plans for how to go about that.

Today was the last day of two writing groups, thank fuck. There was a while there when Wednesdays went: keyboard lesson, bereavement counselling, writing group, memoir writing, which would be too much for any fucker, let alone someone who is quite tired already, actually. The memoir group was a mistake really - why did I ever think I'd have access to a brain cell at the end of the day? But I enjoyed it. Tonight we all read a bit and honestly, there was some fantastic writing, just about every piece. You don't often get that with groups, I promise you. It's left me feeling a bit more positive about a memoir, but not just yet.

In the other group we wrote in response to a list of titles of Christmas singles, B grudgingly accepting that although she feels fucked off with it, others might be feeling a bit festive. I'm not, but I suddenly remembered this incident which I will share here:

'Merry Christmas, everyone!' 'I wish it could be Christmas every day!' - those were the songs, in 1972, 73 and 74 when I was working in, managing even, a record shop. In the last week building up to Christmas we sold thousands of these infuriating singles, Slade, Wizzard, Mud, all that lot. The shop was owned by Roger - it had been financed by one of his mates who won the football pools. He'd set Roger up with a record shop at the top of the town, in an ancient red brick Tudor building, at least 300 years old if not more, and across the road there was John with his Hi-Fi shop. We were all mates and one Christmas Eve I escaped the madness at our place and went across to the Hi-Fi shop for a breather. "Have a mince pie!" A plateful was thrust towards me.
"Ooh yes, thanks." I wolfed one down and grabbed another from the plate. "I'll have two, I'm starving!"
"Best not," said Fritz, but too late the second one was already down.
"What do you mean? Why not? Oh, you fuckers."
Yes, they were heavily laced with cannabis, which the HiFi shop staff all embraced with enthusiasm, as did I, but not so my boss. Aw, man. Never mind, I'd manage.
Which I did, more or less, an endless queue of customers waving album sleeves and fivers at me, all set to the pounding of, "So here it is merry Christmas, everybody's having fun..." again and again and again... until a bloke came into the shop with a life-sized, plastic duck, a mallard, pushed through the epaulette of his great coat, balanced on his shoulder, peeping out of his long grubby hair. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just browsed through the Groups, A-D section and I lost it. Once I'd started laughing I couldn't stop and had to sit on the step. Roger went mad - I was the manager and this was the busiest, most profitable afternoon of the year. The more he hissed at me under his breath, the funnier I found it until I was crying with laughter and he sent me upstairs, furious. Upstairs felt all weird and silent apart from the racket of the music, the voices, the clanging of the till, which seemed to be formed into a plume of smoke-shaped noise whirling all around me.
He sacked me when he found out what I'd done but grudgingly gave me my job back after a deputation from the hifi shop swore I hadn't known what I was eating. He was still cross though, for quite a while.

Three good things:
1. I'm having lunch with Grandson tomorrow
2. The plumber is coming tomorrow (while I'm out, yay) to move the radiator, ready for the wall of bookcases
3. I made it through this last dip, go me.

Night night xxx

10:28 p.m. - 09.12.20


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