Decline and fall

So it’s time.  I’ve given it a go.  But, as I suspected, it didnae work.  It’s why the late Mrs H didn’t make it an actual promise. Unlike the no suicide, no drinking palaver.  Deathbed promises they were.  But they whole thing about no ending up the loony on the bus, gibbering in the attic on my lonesome thing. That was just a plea.

And I gave it a bash for the whole of this year but after several months of intensive shrinkery and a battalion of acronyms all of which point the finger squarely at my auld Irish mammy (see I told you), it transpires that I am, officially, no right in the heid.

Turns out I never learned how to make emotional connections due to my unusual childhood so how lucky was I that I happened to meet someone who was even mair messed up than me. Somehow our assortments of crazy found a safe haven with each other which is probably why the second last thing that Mrs H said to me before she died was “you always made me feel safe”. [weeps]

However, knowing the whatnotss of why you’re no right in the heid and why you’re struggling so badly with grief disnae stop you being no right in the heid. Especially when there is nothing that can be done about it. Which is why I packed in the shrinkery.

Anyway, that’s a rambling way of saying it’s time to give up.  To the untrained eye it may have seemed like I’d done nothing but, for me, I actually made a big effort this year.  But it didnae take. Partly due to the no quite rightness, partly due to the fact that being a mentalist disnae take away fae the fact that I can be hard work / a bit of a bastard / an utter shite – delete as appropriate.

So I’ve packed in the Facebook, when my personal mobile contract runs out in December I won’t be renewing it and I’m starting to remove my web presence. The radio station and blog will be the first to go at the end of December.  I’ve got a date for my final disappearance.  It’s more Frank Sinatra Farewell Tour than Nuclear Button but at least I have something to aim for.

To those that showed me some kindness, my heartfelt thanks. The rest of you know where to stick the poker. If not, ask Isabella of France. Dirty buggers.




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