chemists

Monday morning. Staring out the window, I thought “It’s not that bad out there.” And then I remembered: it’s hot. Not just "nice weather" hot — it’s "sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat" hot.

But I had to go to the chemist. Because of course I did.

Now, a trip to the chemist isn’t a charming little jaunt through town. No, it’s a full-blown episode of chaos, like being dropped into a live-action version of a supermarket sweep hosted by Satan. I sighed, gritted my teeth, and retrieved the “Trolley of Doom” from the back of the van — my noble steed for the day. By steed, I mean the three-wheeled scooter of questionable engineering and malevolent intent.

I trundled along from the car park into town, trying not to run over children or pensioners, and that’s when it happened: the dreaded squeaky wheel. The kind of squeak that turns heads and makes dogs bark. I was now the main attraction in this circus.

Stopped in a shop. Bought a hat. Why? Who knows. A Bart Simpson brain-fart moment, probably. Sat down. Wanted to go back. But no — the mission had only just begun.

Scooter Olympics: Downhill Edition Then it happened. The scooter hit the steep part of town. The brakes? Decorative. I went full Bond villain escape mode, teetering on two wheels, praying to every minor deity I could think of. Somehow avoided launching myself into oncoming traffic — gold star for me.

After regaining what’s left of my composure and dignity, I attempted to return to the van. Easy, right? Wrong.

At the bottom of the hill, my scooter did a dramatic “Nope” and refused to climb back up. Wheel spin. No traction. I was now the proud pilot of a large, expensive, stuck plastic tricycle. Put my full weight over the front to force traction. Eventually made it. No applause.

Still Waiting for My Ticket to Freedom Six months I’ve been waiting for a new electric wheelchair. Six. I might as well carve days into the wall at this point. The current beast I’m riding is like a vengeful mobility ghost. I do own another chair — but replacing the battery costs roughly the same as a small car. Conveniently, no one tells you these things until you’re already deep in the system.

I just want a Q100. Nothing fancy. Simple. Effective. But no — I’ll probably be given another oversized monstrosity that corners like a barge and eats doorframes for fun.

Bonus Round: The Curse of the Mower Got home. Sat down. Exhaled.

Then I looked at the garden.

The lawnmower is dead. Not used, not abused, just dead. It’s just there, glaring at me like a green-flecked tombstone. So now we need a new one. Again.

Me? I vote for artificial grass. No mowing, no weed-whacking, no broken machinery. No soul either, but I can live with that.

And the kicker? It’s only midday.

My speech-to-text software has also decided to have an existential crisis — typing gibberish like it’s been drinking all morning.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

             “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

A very good morning from the slightly crispy edge of reality.

It’s early, the sun’s already threatening to scorch us into lizards, and I’m camped in front of the fridge like it’s a portal to Narnia—except Narnia’s got central air. The tinnitus is humming away like some deranged synthwave backing track, and I’m contemplating whether I dare mount my three-wheeled Scooter of Death for the weekly pilgrimage to the chemist.

Yes, the chemist. That temple of modern medicine where, thanks to the miracle of automation, I once again got someone else’s prescription. I swear, it’s like a game show:

“Step right up and spin the magical dispensing machine! Today’s lucky contestant wins… Sertraline!”

Antidepressants. Brilliant. Just what someone with multiple sclerosis needs to top off the cocktail. Meanwhile, someone out there is probably wondering what the hell carbamazepine is and why their depression suddenly feels like a seizure.

Dr. Fist and the Dental Apocalypse

As if that weren’t enough chaos for one day, I got a call from my dentist—well, former dentist. He’s out of action with a broken fist. Yes, a broken fist. I didn’t ask. I daren’t ask. My imagination’s already taken that one to some very questionable places. Possibly involving a disgruntled patient or a bar stool.

So now I’m off to meet a new dentist. Let’s hope I don’t draw Dr. Pain, DDS from the horror movie extras department. Probably someone who sharpens their tools on wrought iron fences and thinks anesthesia is for the weak.

Which is a shame, really, because Dr. Fist (I’m afraid he’ll always be “Dr. Fist” now) was actually the best dentist I’ve ever had. Gentle, non-threatening, and didn’t treat my jaw like a door hinge in need of WD-40. I wish him a speedy recovery—and maybe a good pair of gloves.

The NHS, Surprisingly… Not Awful?

In a refreshing twist of fate, I had my first appointment with the new NHS health centre today. Braced myself for the usual bureaucratic disaster—but shocker: the doctor was great.

Listened. Advised. Seemed human. When you’ve got full-blown White Coat Syndrome, that’s a miracle. For the uninitiated:

White Coat Syndrome: When your blood pressure hits Olympic pole-vaulting levels simply because you walked into a room with someone in a lab coat. It’s not illness—it’s sheer, uncut medical anxiety.™

So, small miracle there. I might actually trust this new place. That's not a sentence I say lightly.

Vape, Clouds, and the Eternal Wait for Sanity Back to the window—clouds are looming, the heat’s easing, and it’s time for my medical cannabis vape and a bit of THC oil. Helps with the pain and the spasms. And also with the absurdity of life, which seems to be running at full volume today.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one morning. If you made it this far, you officially qualify for a biscuit. Possibly two. Rich Tea if you’re feeling ironic.

Thanks for dropping by.

Until next time, stay cool, stay sarcastic, and for heaven’s sake—check your meds before you leave the chemist. You never know what flavour of mental health you might accidentally walk out with. Cheers, stay cool, and remember: if the prescription machine gives you methadone next week, try not to start a jazz band.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                     By storm and silence, I survive.”