Another Glorious Day in This Damp Little Circus

Here I am again—nobly fused to my chair like some relic of British stubbornness—gazing out of the window at the national weather forecast: wet, with a 100% chance of more wet. If grey skies were a national currency, we’d be laughing all the way to the food bank. Outside, the world carries on with its usual grim determination. Cars hum by on the main road, all in a hurry to get absolutely nowhere worth going. The local train wheezes around the loop like it’s got a purpose—bless it. And then the HSTs roar over the viaduct like they’re auditioning for a midlife crisis on wheels. What are they even rushing for? Everything’s still going to be crap when they get there. And the sheep—oh, the sheep. Standing around in the rain, bleating into the void like drunk students at a philosophy open mic. Not a brain cell between them, just damp wool and existential confusion. Honestly, if reincarnation's real, I must've pissed off someone important. Over all this melodrama, my music plays softly. Well, not so much softly as "pointlessly," because I've already got my own built-in horror soundtrack—tinnitus. That sweet, sweet screech that says “good morning” before I even open my eyes. Sometimes it hums, sometimes it screams, sometimes it sounds like someone’s microwaving a wasp inside my skull. Delightful. I remember when it first began—driving along the A39, minding my own business, when bam, reality decided to turn into a low-budget horror film. Been over ten years now. Ten years of having my own private noise machine jammed into my head. Wouldn't recommend it. As if that wasn’t already enough to make life feel like a practical joke, I’ve got MS too. The balance is shot. The fingers don’t work. The keyboard’s just a decorative item now. I dictate everything into my phone like I’m issuing commands to a particularly thick servant. Flashback time—around 25 years ago, I’m doing the washing up, pretending to be normal. Suddenly I notice the dishwater’s gone red. Thought the tomatoes had gotten out of hand—turns out, I’d stabbed myself in the hand. Didn’t feel a thing. Just stood there wondering if I’d invented blood-flavoured Fairy Liquid. That was just the start. Since then, I’ve had more accidents than a drunk toddler on roller skates. Broke both shoulders falling over. Multiple scars, most of them self-inflicted through sheer bloody-mindedness. Fell off a ladder, got back on it, fell off again. You’d think at some point I’d learn. But no—this is Britain. We don’t quit, we just keep making the same mistakes with added sarcasm. So now, I’ve accepted that my life is part soap opera, part public safety announcement. My body's turned into a rogue machine, and my brain’s mostly fog and loud noises. I don’t fear death—it’s not exactly hiding. Shows up every morning, waving from the corner like an overly familiar neighbour. And still, I sit here. Watching the rain, listening to the sheep, absorbing the relentless mediocrity of everything. It’s not tragic, it’s not heroic—it’s just... Tuesday. Sucks to be me? Oh, absolutely. But hey—if you can’t laugh at your own spectacular misfortune, what’s the point?

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

      “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”