British Humour

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

please remember I suffer with severe cognitive dysfunction this may be a confusing read. no AI written content

Chronic Illness, MS Reality, Spiritual Gnosis & Goblin Truth Writing

Still good morning, good afternoon. Or hello to wherever or whomever you are, whether you're humanoid, whether you're extra terrestrial or whatever you are, a very good morning. And I don't even know what day it is today. Yes, the heat has really done for me. And yes, the cats, well, they are behaving very strangely in this weather indeed.

neck issues and a bad mood

So my neck issue has resurfaced again. The pain in the neck, ha ha, I know, is really, really bad. And of course I'd been and seen a physiotherapist about it. He said lean forwards your head, lean backwards, it will be okay. But I've done everything he said and it's getting worse. So, oh dear, I'm going to have to get in touch with somebody to try and get that sorted out now. Because it's very painful and it has me in a very weird mood. how can I say, touchy as the pain is just so intense. So that means I'm not getting very much sleep and with this heat it is a big major problem. It was 32 degrees here yesterday and as I look at my thermometer here or whatever you might call it, we're up to 28 degrees already. Yes, that's wonderful if you haven't got a chronic illness.

The Problem With Pharmacies

So Albertine said we have to go to the chemists and I said well it's okay whether and why not so we both climbed aboard our three wheel trolleys of death and we took our life in our own hands as we traveled at the speed of eight miles an hour on our way to the chemists. There was hardly any traffic on the road, that makes a change. And as we rolled up to the chemists, yes of course. We got there and we parked up and Albertine went to the door and guess what?

why wtf ?

The chemist was closed. The chemist was fucking closed. And there was a note in the window because they haven't got a... um... pharmacist. I mean, really... Is it too much trouble to get another pharmacist from another branch just to come in for a day or something? No! Just close it. So all the people that have to really force themselves out of the house to get there because they don't do prescription deliveries, And if you're stuck in a wheelchair or you've got no transport or you're relying on people, it's bad news really, to find that the chemist's shut.

I find it terrible. so we have to work our way up there and when we get there we have the machine of death. Now as you know the machine of death and me do not get on and I have had many of my prescriptions lost due to the stupidity of the chemists system because they forget to tell me that they have some of my stuff behind their counter that won't fit in their stupid machine. so lack of communication really....

So hopefully tomorrow morning we will be going early to the chemists and they will have someone there that can give us our prescriptions. That would be awesome, especially in this heat. Because to be honest with you, heat and chronic illness just don't go together as people know. You can lose so much energy and you dehydrate so quickly. You need to hydrate with as much hydration water as possible. Before you go out, make sure you wear a hat even. You know, sunglasses, look the part on your trolley or scooter of death or your wheelchair .

MS and Heat Intolerance

Well, yes, we are heading to that time where it seems to be quite warm. I myself find myself in the coolest room in the bungi. Then if that room gets too hot, I will put a fan on. If that gets too hot, I will go into the kitchen and I will open the fridge door. And that is where I will sit on and off for a little while, just listening to music. As I just overheat slightly, I will gently open the fridge door. Yes, that's pure heaven. The most worst thing for me is in the depths of winter I can feel too hot and yeah you get it in the depths of the summer I can feel too cold sometimes. Real double edged sword and trying to keep yourself day to day going is quite something else I think.

What's the point of people and friends?

I was just thinking to myself the other day and I was thinking how many people actually keep in contact with me in my family and I thought well as the years have gone by it's less and less and less to where well practically nobody even speaks to me anymore and I sort I wonder why. I sort of think to myself, well, they must be busy with their life and they have their life and, you know, but I have put myself out for my family over the years selflessly and sometimes it really does piss me off because people don't understand what chronic illness is all about. People don't see me all day long and see what I have to go through. They might just see quick snapshots of me.

This is the real me now ?

The thing is, if it's because I have MS, and that's the real reason that this chronic illness is sort of putting them off seeing me, I don't know. What is it with chronic illness that you loose or your friends and family? I know I've changed, but I'm a better person than I used to be. So I just can't understand why. Is it because I talk straight and I tell it like it is? Is that it? Is it because they think, oh, I might be dead next week, so what's the point of speaking to me? Because they think they're not going to get a sensible conversation. What is it? What have I done to deserve that? And it really does hurt me to the core sometimes. but I keep that to myself not to cause issues...

I admit to being a psychic and eccentric, slightly weird. Eh

I've never been a person to wear blinkers, I've always taken my blinkers off and thrown them down, and seen things basically for what they really, truly are. Yes, I am eccentric. Yes, I am slightly weird, I have weird thoughts about things. Some people might say, because my views on religion, I don't have many. I believe in gnosis. Now, that's me. That's my personal belief So I believe in Wicca gnosis and humanism, all three clacked into one. That's me, really. So, yeah. I only want good things, not bad things for people. And I just think that if people think that's a weird thing to want, then I'm glad I'm weird. I was talking about UFOs way back in the 1970s. I was talking about things back in the 70s when people were generally thought to be mad and I've been proven right that the things they thought in the 70s have happened. So there we go.

I was a professional psychic medium healer teacher for over 50 years

Also something people probably don't know about me. I was a professional psychic medium for well over 50 years. And also teaching others who were willing to learn free had many amazing students.. So there we go on that as well. So that adds to another string of my bow of weirdness. So that probably makes me weird because I like to tell the truth and I like to say how it is without being told I cannot say something but these days I am now self-censoring due to all of the sense and sensibility of the world going out of the window to be honest.

My personnel look

And then of course I was a lifestyle biker, old leathers originals. That's how I run for most of my life until I had to give up riding, because of the multiple sclerosis fucked me up big time. So I had to sell my trike, which I had converted about 15 years ago. I had a Yamaha 1100 drag star and I got it converted so I could stay on the road longer. And I managed 15 years, and it was 15 years of hell and pain. And yeah, I did it all on my own just with Albertine. Nobody else wanted to really know, but such is life when you're a disabled person. And a disabled person on a bike as well or a trike, people just sort of kind of ignore you or just point at you. I just find it really sick and sad in this society. Nobody wants to help anybody. Nobody wants to smile and nobody wants to be happy. Everything seems so divisive these days. It really is a sad place. So being a biker, being a bit scruffy, being a psychic and being a bit weird really doesn't help you when you've got long hair and a long beard. And you're quite tall, but when you're stuck in a power chair things get very different very quickly. So yeah, you should always make the most of what you've got until you lose it, that's what I say. .... never judge a book by the cover

Still sending everybody peace, healing, love and light, no matter who or where you are and hoping that if you are in the heat that you hydrate well and you get in the shade. And everybody take care until I drop the next blog post. So thank you very much for reading. I do appreciate all the readers.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Rain, Kittens, Orbs, and the Question of Sanity

The rain came down like it had a personal grudge.

Not a polite drizzle. Not that apologetic British mist that says sorry as it dampens your jacket. This was proper biblical nonsense drains overflowing, gutters giving up, the kind of rain that makes you laugh and think, Well then… water shortage this summer, obviously. Humanoids are marvellous at panicking about drought while actively floating away.

I woke around 4:30am to what can only be described as a purring industrial estate. One kitten asleep on my head. Another wedged into my neck and beard like it had taken out a long‑term lease. Engines running. Vibrations everywhere. If cats are supposed to be aloof, these two missed the memo and went straight for emotional blackmail.

Then came the inevitable.

Kitten. Christmas tree. Gravity.

Yes — the tree ended up on the floor. No — the kitten did not care. In fact, she looked smug. Decorations everywhere, tinsel hanging like festive entrails. We laughed because the alternative was crying, and crying before breakfast feels a bit ambitious.

Looking Up (and Not Seeing Much)

I still look at the sky.

According to the internet, it should be crawling with orbs, UAPs, UFOs, visitors popping in like it’s a motorway service station. I look up and see clouds, rain, and the occasional star when the southwest decides to be generous. No glowing ambassadors from beyond. Either I need new glasses or I’m simply not on the invite list.

That said, I do see strange things sometimes. Flickers. Patterns. Moments that make me stop and think, Hang on… what was that? And that’s where the internal interrogation starts:

Am I seeing something genuinely odd? Or am I seeing reality through a nervous system that’s been joyfully sabotaged?

I live with multiple sclerosis. I live with brain fog. I live with an autonomic system that behaves like it’s freelancing without supervision. When that’s your baseline, you don’t get the luxury of trusting perception — but you also don’t get to dismiss it outright. You’re stuck in the grey bit, where certainty goes to die.

The Medical Cul‑de‑Sac

I did the neurological tour. Thoroughly.

Scans. Clinics. Explanations that manage to be both technical and utterly hollow. MS can do this. MS can do that. Yes, thank you I’ve noticed. Useful, but spiritually about as nourishing as a hospital biscuit.

So I widened the lens.

Philosophy. Consciousness. Vallée. Keel. The trickster nature of reality. Not because I want to declare myself special or enlightened — but because pretending the questions don’t exist feels like intellectual cowardice.

Enter AI, Wearing a High‑Vis Jacket

Asking AI was… an experience. it tried to sanitise everything.

Dietary help? Genuinely useful. When your body treats half the food supply like a personal attack, clarity matters.

Spiritually? Absolutely allergic to nuance.

Everything funnelled straight into pathology. Everything gently but firmly steered toward “this is all in your head, dear.” Not curiosity compliance. Ask a question about perception and suddenly you’re wrapped in digital bubble wrap with a warning label.

Here’s the blunt bit: AI doesn’t think. It reflects.

It reflects liability fears, cultural assumptions, and the worldview of its programmers. Which means spirituality gets treated like a software bug, and lived experience gets flattened into symptom management. That’s not wisdom that’s risk assessment pretending to care.

So Am I Mad, Then?

Let’s not mince words.

MS makes your interface with reality noisy. Signals overlap. The brain flags nonsense as urgent and sometimes ignores what actually matters. That’s biology, not a moral failure.

But and this is where everyone gets lazy neurological explanation does not automatically equal existential erasure.

Not everything is meaningless. Not everything is a cosmic message either.

The real work is discernment, which is far less glamorous than revelation.

Questioning your own experiences isn’t madness it’s grounding. Wondering whether something is neurological, psychological, or something else entirely is not delusion it’s honesty. Certainty without humility, on the other hand, is where things go properly sideways.

I don’t claim gifts. I don’t claim answers. I claim decades of odd experiences, a damaged nervous system, a functioning bullshit detector, and the right to sit with uncertainty without being patronised.

Where I’ve Ended Up (So Far)

I trust neither blind belief nor blind dismissal.

Doctors don’t have the full picture. AI definitely doesn’t. Spiritual circles often disappear up their own arse. Hard materialism leaves too much unexplained.

Reality, inconveniently, refuses to be tidy.

So I keep one foot on the ground, one eye on the sky, and both hands firmly on my own nonsense especially on bad days.

Some days are pain, fog, and unreality. Some days are kittens, rain, and laughter.

I send peace, healing, love, and light anyway to everyone not because everything’s fine, but because choosing bitterness would be the final indignity.

If this season means anything at all, it’s this: More days turning into more days. Still here. Still asking.

That’ll do.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

It’s Thursday. The sun is out, probably warmer than my place, which is basically an icebox. Today’s forecast? Existential dread with a chance of mild joy.

This morning, the doctor rang me for my phone appointment. Absolute legend. Actually made me feel less like a human pincushion, which is impressive because I have severe white coat syndrome. Since moving here, local doctors are… shockingly decent. no Plumbstick, it’s almost unsettling.

Then came the highlight of my day: the “machine of death” at the chemist. It always malfunctions like it has a personal vendetta against me. But today? Today I smiled through the existential horror.

Yopi, my alpha Blueblood American Bulldog, was serene like she’d transcended this mortal coil. She hopped into the back of Rusty 1, strapped in like a responsible adult (she’s better at this than me), and off we went. The warmth of the day made me momentarily forget I’m a failing meat suit with MS. Dogs are magical that way. Stroke a dog’s chin and suddenly the chronic pain fades to background noise… until reality slaps you in the face again.

Speaking of slaps: my head feels… weird. Not foggy, just like some cosmic veil is tugging me toward a place free of pain. Somewhere better. Warmer. Definitely less human. My spiritual side is currently a maze, confusing me, mocking me, asking, “Who even are you?” Just a random meat suit with MS, apparently.

I put on The Eagles and let the memories flood in. Nostalgia is a cruel friend reminds you what you’ve lost while your limbs stage a protest.

We drove to the chemist. Thrilling stuff. All normal, boring, mundanely tragic but Yopi enjoyed it. Sometimes I wish I were a dog. Carefree. Oblivious. Immortal in joy.

Yes, that’s Thursday. Survived. Somehow.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

The Fatigue Olympics — A Users’ Guide to Collapsing with Style

You know that moment when your body files for bankruptcy mid-toast? Welcome to the Fatigue Olympics: events nobody asked for, medals nobody wants, commentary provided by a goblin with a migraine and a sense of humour darker than a southern sky in February.

Opening Ceremony (lights off, obviously)

No fireworks. Too bright. We light a tea candle, stare at it for four minutes, then cancel the parade because we’re exhausted from thinking about it.

Events

100m Dash to the Loo

You stand. The world tilts. Knees write a resignation letter. Heroic sit-down pee. Gold medal for not crying on the bath mat.

Toast Marathon

Aim: butter toast. Outcome: butter floor, butter dog, butter despair. The toaster dings like a smug little tyrant. DNF (Did Not Finish), again.

Sofa Free-Climb

Mid-sentence coma. You wake three hours later with a crumb fossilised to your cheek. Was it an important conversation? Probably. Did you survive? Also probably.

Shower Sprint

You manage one armpit and a stern glance at the shampoo. Podium finish if you got your hair wet on purpose.

Remote-Control Deadlift

Attempt to change channel. Drop remote on face. Pretend it was “mindfulness.” Bronze medal for not swearing at inanimate objects (you swore).

Stairs Biathlon

Climb and breathe. That’s it. That’s the sport. Personal best if you don’t consider simply living at the top step forever.

Grocery Gauntlet

Entering the shop was hubris. Leaving is a quest. Bread is heavy now. Who made bread heavy?

Scoring System

Finished without crying: +10

Finished while crying: +20 (tears count as electrolytes)

Didn’t finish but made a meme about it: automatic silver

Cancelled the day and survived: lifetime achievement award

Why this isn’t “just being tired”

Fatigue is a hostile takeover. It hijacks signal from brain to body and replaces it with static. You’re not lazy; your wiring is on fire. Some days clarity visits for a few hours; you shift your mindset, put on music, make art, write something grim and honest, and that tiny act becomes revolutionary. That’s the win: not pretending it’s fine—moving anyway, even if “moving” is tapping one sentence and then lying down like a Victorian ghost.

Closing Ceremony

We applaud in our heads to conserve energy. The anthem is played at half-speed. Everyone leaves early and naps like champions.

Post Footer: Practical Notes (because survival is punk)

Lower the bar until you can step over it. Then lower it again.

One task = a win. Two = a parade.

Music, art, writing: not hobbies—lifelines.

If anyone calls you “brave,” invoice them.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle. 𐑢𐑨𐑑𐑒𐑣𐑧𐑮 𐑨𐑥𐑴𐑙 𐑢𐑨𐑑𐑒𐑣𐑧𐑮𐑕

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) is a bit like being dropped into a labyrinth where the walls are invisible and the floor is made of Lego. Every day is a surprise party, but instead of cake, you get fatigue, brain fog, and a lottery of weird symptoms. Your body speaks a language all its own a sort of biological Morse code. Spoiler: it’s mostly complaints.

1. The Body’s Whispers (AKA the Passive-Aggressive Texts from Hell)

Your body doesn’t scream right away. Oh no. It whispers, “Maybe don’t do that,” in the kind of tone your nan uses when she means “If you do, you’ll regret it forever.” Ignore it, and you’ll get the full “MS meltdown” treatment. Learn to listen to these gentle hints before they become a four alarm disaster. Trust me, your body wants you to fail the ‘ignore me’ test.

2. Embracing the Rollercoaster (Or, Why I’m Sometimes a Superhero and Sometimes a Sloth)

MS is the ultimate ride. Some days you wake up and think, “Yeah, I could probably take over the world.” Other days you make sloths look like adrenaline junkies. Don’t fight it. Embrace the madness. There’s no refund for this ticket anyway. If you can laugh when your legs forget they exist, you’re already ahead.

3. The Power of Positivity (But Not the Cheesy Kind)

Let’s get real: “positive vibes only” is for people with motivational mugs, not MS. Real positivity is finding a smirk in the struggle. Did you get out of bed today? Bloody legend. Did you find a reason to laugh, even if it was at yourself? That’s winning. Celebrate the tiny victories because some days, they’re all you’ll get.

4. Mindfulness: Your Secret Weapon (Or, The Only Time Silence Isn’t Suspicious)

No, mindfulness won’t cure MS, but it might stop you from headbutting a wall. Check in with yourself. Is your body grumbling, squeaking, or plotting revenge? Maybe it’s time for a rest, a stretch, or just a massive bar of chocolate. Mindfulness: because you can’t afford to ignore the warning lights on this old banger of a body.

5. Building Your Support Squad (Or, Assembling Your Band of Misfits)

Find your people. The ones who get it, the ones who don’t offer herbal tea as a cure. Whether it’s other MS folk, stubborn friends, or just some poor soul who doesn’t run when you say “incontinence,” keep them close. Empathy makes the pain bearable and the jokes darker. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s weakness to ask for help—sometimes, it’s just good strategy.

6. Finding Your Voice (Because Telepathy Still Isn’t Covered by the NHS)

Speak up. For your needs, your rights, your weird symptoms. Don’t let the world turn you into a prop in your own life story. Your voice might tremble, but it matters. The more you say, the more others understand and maybe, just maybe, the world will get a clue.

Bonus Track: The Legend of the Overworked Neuros

Let’s give a round of applause (or maybe just a sarcastic slow clap) for the overworked neurologists. They’re busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, running from clinic to clinic, dodging patients like ninjas in white coats. Actual patient appointments? That’s rich. You’re more likely to win the EuroMillions than see one before your wheelchair warranty expires.

The NHS says “your neuro will see you now,” but what they mean is: “He’ll see you on the mural in the waiting room. Or as a hologram projected from his last known location.” Some say if you light enough scented candles and chant “re-referral” three times, a neuro will materialize… but only to tell you that your next appointment is scheduled for June 2036.

The truth is, neuros are overworked too many people, not enough doctors, and a health system held together with sellotape and wishful thinking. But while the overworked neuro vanishes like a magician at a kids’ party, you’re left to decode your own body’s malfunctioning Morse code and hope you don’t accidentally google yourself into a full blown panic attack.

If you do spot a neuro in the wild, be gentle. They scare easily and may bolt for the exit if approached. In the meantime, keep calm, decode your own symptoms, and remember Dr. Google and Nurse Sarcasm are open 24/7.

Bonus Track 2: The Thankless Saints MS Nurses

While the neurologists are off playing hide and seek, let’s talk about the true legends: MS nurses. They’re the ones on the ground, fighting fires with a teaspoon and answering emails like their keyboard’s on fire. Somehow, they manage to be calm, knowledgeable, and kind even when you’re one question away from a meltdown and have already left nine voicemails.

MS nurses are the unsung therapists, detectives, and sometimes part-time magicians (“You’ve tried turning it off and on again? Excellent now have you tried snacks and a nap?”). They field the panicked questions neuros don’t have time for, translate medical jargon into English, and manage to keep us (and sometimes themselves) just the right side of losing it.

Are they overworked, underpaid, and under-appreciated? Of course! Do they do it anyway, with a level of patience and gallows humour that should earn them a sainthood (or at least hazard pay)? Absolutely.

If you’re lucky enough to have an MS nurse who answers the phone and doesn’t flinch when you ask if your “weird new symptom” means you’re dying buy them a coffee. Or a spa weekend. Or just send a thank you meme. Without them, the whole bloody NHS MS system would collapse faster than my legs after a walk to the fridge.

So here’s to the MS nurses: holding it all together with skill, sweat, and the sort of thankless determination that deserves a medal (or at least a pint).

Bonus Track 3: The Unsung Heroes Support Groups, Volunteers & Charities

If you think the NHS is barely clinging on, imagine life without the MS support groups, charities, and stubborn volunteers who do it all for the love of the cause (and maybe the free biscuits at meetings).

Support groups: These legends run by people who actually get it are the real backbone of the MS world. They’re the ones who answer your late night freak outs, decode the NHS bureaucracy, and know which GP receptionist has the good biscuits. In-person, online, or just a WhatsApp meme away, they turn “I’m losing my mind” into “You’re not alone, mate.”

Volunteers: The ones who give their time for free, organizing meet-ups, fundraising, sending out info packs, and listening to rants from people like us without ever losing their patience. Half the time, they’re managing their own MS or supporting someone who is but you’d never know, because they’re too busy holding everyone else up.

Charities: Whether it’s the MS Society, MS Trust, Shift.ms, Overcoming MS, MS-UK, or any of the local grassroots warriors, they’re out there lobbying, funding research, and somehow keeping hope alive in a world that sometimes feels like it’s sponsored by despair. Without them, you’d still be Googling “what the hell is MS” while the NHS phone queue loops you back to start.

Are they underfunded, overstretched, and powered mostly by stubbornness and biscuits? You’d better believe it. Do they keep the whole community from falling through the cracks? Absolutely.

So here’s a genuine, sarcastic-but-serious thank you to every support group, volunteer, and charity keeping the MS circus running. If you ever wondered who the real unsung heroes are it’s the lot turning lived chaos into lifelines.

Raise a mug (or a wheelchair, or just an eyebrow) for them they’ve earned it.

Conclusion: Embrace the Weird, Survive the Storm

Living with MS means forever learning a new dialect of pain, fatigue, and absurdity. The “invisible code” is always changing, but your ability to listen and laugh might just be the best tool you have. Don’t sugar-coat it. Don’t let anyone else either.

So here’s to listening to your body, celebrating every little win, and flipping MS the metaphorical V-sign as often as possible. You’re not alone. And you’re not invisible.

Now, go on decode the next bloody signal. And if you’re looking for rainbow platitudes, you’re in the wrong blog.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

We’re sat here me, Albertine, and the kind of silence that means a bad idea is about to become a plan discussing getting a dog. Again. Yes, a dog. Because apparently I haven’t collected enough chaos already.

History lesson: we’ve done rescue before. Twice. Hard mode only. First up, the German Shepherd a breeding cash cow someone ran into the ground. We fixed the health, fed the soul, and then one day she keyed in on my son like he’d personally repossessed her puppyhood. Full charge, ears back, fear aggression blazing. Turns out he looked a bit too much like the previous owner and trauma doesn’t read bedtime stories. Advice was taken. Tears were had. We rehomed her with people who could give her the space and structure she needed. That was a funeral in everything but flowers.

Then came the Staffy. Completely bonkers. Bought her off someone who thought “discipline” means “violence” and “care” means “sell it quick.” She was a live wire with seven kinds of unfinished business. We worked. She healed, mostly. And we found her the right forever. We were the halfway house with biscuits.

But here’s the bit they never put on the adoption posters: once you’ve lived with an animal, the house doesn’t feel like a house without one. Furniture sits heavier. Air stands still. You notice the quiet and it notices you back.

Practicalities? I’m in a wheelchair. Albertine’s on sticks or chair depending on the day and the weather’s opinion of her joints. Walks? Not an issue. I can clip the lead to the chair and we can do miles like a small parade with complaints. Vets? Down the road. Logistics aren’t the problem; humans are. Always are.

“Don’t get a dog or we won’t visit,” say certain family members who currently visit on the equinox and the second Tuesday of Never. Newsflash: if you only appear four or five times a year, you’re not a stakeholder; you’re a seasonal special.

Breed? I’m Staffy-curious. Good hearts, good with kids, decent security if your doorbell is shy. I’m not daft: rescue comes with luggage. Buying a year old Staffy might come with a smaller suitcase than a seven-year-old with a criminal record. But I’m a big believer in this: let the dog choose me. If you don’t feel that click that “we’re idiots together” moment you’re just renting a personality.

Meanwhile, the sky’s threatening melodrama. Dark clouds, no heatwave, air that smells of arguments. Rain brewing. Perfect dog-choosing weather: we all feel a bit tragic and honest when the barometer drops.

Monday’s the grandson’s birthday off to Plymouth we go, pockets full of snacks and the kind of optimism you only feel right before getting rained on sideways. And in four months, retirement beckons like a dodgy Groupon. I’m stressed, I’m tired, and yes, I’ll keep working because capitalism says rest is for people with inheritance and I’ve got biscuits to buy.

So: do we do it? Yes. Because dynamics need shaking. Because houses need heartbeats. Because the right animal doesn’t just fill a space it changes the air.

And if certain relatives squeal? Lovely. The dog likes squeaky toys.

Notes For The Sensible (there aren’t many) We’ll meet the dog in neutral ground, twice.

We’ll ask about triggers, cats, kids, wheelchairs, umbrellas, and men in hats.

We’ll commit to training like it’s laundry: constant and mildly annoying.

If it’s not right, we walk away. If it is, we make it right.

The Weather Part (Because Britain) Storm vibes: on. Umbrella: haunted. Mood: Staffy-shaped. Afternoon Today’s forecast: Wheel rolls. Stick taps. Lead clips. Clouds lower like rent. Some hearts bark before they beat.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.