Chronic Illness

There I am — parked up in my daughter’s front room, in my wheelchair , trapped in this deranged body of mine, joints on strike, nerves belting out their usual death metal anthem, and the telly crackles to life with Outback Opal Hunters.

And suddenly… I’m free.

I’m out there in the dust-blasted Australian outback, surrounded by sweating maniacs digging up rocks like they’re mining the shattered dreams of the gods. And I bloody love it.

These lunatics aren’t digging for gold or fame. No, they’re chasing after fire trapped in stone opal. Shards of lightning frozen in rock. And what do they do to get it? Risk everything. Lose fingers. Melt in 45-degree heat. Spend 12 hours underground in a hole that’s one bad breath away from collapse just to find a flicker of green in a sea of grey. That’s not a job, mate. That’s madness with a purpose.

And that’s why I can’t get enough of it.

These people are broke, busted, broken, and burning up and they keep going. Why? Because maybe… just maybe… the next shovel-full might be their salvation. Or maybe it’s another week of living off tinned beans and borrowed hope. Sound familiar?

Yeah, I see a bit of myself in every single one of those dirty, half-mad opal chasers. Because when you’re battling a body that’s turned against you like mine has every step, every day, every moment is digging through pain for that one shimmering slice of meaning.

Watching Outback Opal Hunters isn’t just entertainment. It’s therapy. It’s watching people fight a silent war, and every now and then, win. It’s real, raw, dusty-as-hell life. And when those boys and girls hit pay dirt? When they hold up a stone that looks like it was carved from a rainbow by the devil himself? I feel it. Right down to the bone marrow.

👑 Rod Manning – The Man Then there’s Rod Manning. He’s not just another miner. He’s the man. A grizzled Aussie bloke whose face is as weathered as the outback itself. The quiet storm of the Bushmen crew. No flair, no ego – just relentless grit and that rare magic touch. When he finds good stones, it’s like watching a magician pull colour from dust. And when things go tits-up (which they always do)? He dusts off, spits in the dirt, and mutters:

“She’ll be right.”

And by all buggering chances, it bloody well is. He is awesome. He is the man.

If my MS was an opal mine, it’d be full of collapses, bad air, and a constant sense of “Why the hell am I even doing this?” But sometimes just sometimes you hit that flicker of colour that makes it all worth it.

So here’s to the mad bastards with pickaxes and faith. Outback Opal Hunters — you’re not just digging for rocks. You’re digging through my soul, and somehow, making me feel alive again.

Now pass me the remote and a cold one, I’ve got opal fever.

           “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.”

           @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Ah, Universal Basic Income UBI. The shiny carrot dangled by politicians and dreamers alike. A magic monthly payout, no questions asked, no forms to fill, just cold, hard cash to fix all the broken bits of your life.

Sounds perfect, right?

If you’re under 30, in perfect health, and don’t look like a grizzled biker-warlock with MS parked in a wheelchair maybe. For the rest of us? It’s about as “universal” as a secret society handshake.

I’m 66, have MS, and spend most days stuck in a wheelchair. I’ve paid my dues in blood, sweat, and taxes. The NHS and DWP have taken their cut sometimes twice through endless paperwork, suspicious looks, and a roulette wheel of meds that may or may not kill me softly.

UBI? A lovely idea until it’s a letter in the post telling me I don’t qualify. Because “universal” means universal if you fit the damn model, not if you’ve got a beard, a leather cut, and a wheelchair.

My carers? They’re battling their own health while carrying me through this Kafkaesque nightmare. The system forgets we exist, then wonders why it’s failing.

Lately, I trust AI more than the DWP. At least the machine of doom doesn’t sigh or gaslight me when I ask for my meds. It malfunctions less often and never plays favorites.

UBI might be the future, but for me? It’s another cruel joke, hanging like a flickering neon sign in a fog of broken promises.

Call me when the cheque lands.

Mr Dark

                      “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.”

                           @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

I used to be sharp. Witty. The sort of bloke who could win an argument, quote Back street hero's, and recall the time, place, and insult I used in 1987.

Now I regularly forget why I’ve wheeled myself into a room, what day it is, or let’s be honest what a room even is.

Welcome to cognitive dysfunction, brought to you by Multiple Sclerosis. It’s like dementia’s younger, more chaotic cousin but with bonus fatigue, bladder misadventures, and a front-row seat to your own mental unravelling.

Memory Holes and Swiss Cheese Brains Sometimes it’s names. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s your entire fooking train of thought, gone like a fart in a cathedral.

I once forgot the word “kettle” and pointed at it like a confused chimp, muttering: “That hot thing that makes the water scream.” Albertine knew what I meant. She always does. Probably because I’ve done this about 4,000 times now.

And don’t get me started on conversations. You can be halfway through a sentence and—

What was I saying?

The Magical Vanishing Vocabulary Trick My brain has become a magician. Watch it make entire chunks of vocabulary disappear!

Last week I called a screwdriver “that spinny bastard.” It took three goes to remember the word “remote.” And trying to describe a dream I had was like explaining a David Lynch film through interpretive dance.

Albertine just sits there, patient as ever, while I mime, gesture, and swear my way toward basic nouns. It’s a sexy look. Like Shakespeare having a mild stroke.

The Existential Horror of Staring at a Spoon There’s nothing quite like sitting in your kitchen, holding a spoon, and thinking: “What do I do with this?”

Do I eat soup? Stir tea? Dig a small symbolic grave for my cognitive dignity?

All of the above.

Please Hold… Some days, my thoughts load slower than rural dial-up in 1997. You can see it in my eyes—buffering… buffering… spinning wheel of death.

I try to say something clever, and out comes a noise like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis.

It’s funny until it’s not. Then it’s terrifying. Then, usually, it’s funny again.

Because what else can you do?

A Mind in Pieces MS cognitive dysfunction isn’t just forgetting your keys. It’s forgetting where the word “keys” lives. It’s your brain quietly slipping out the back door while your body tries to carry on the pantomime of normality.

But I’ll say this: I’m still here. Still watching. Still dangerous. Still me. Even if I occasionally ask Albertine what my own bloody name is.

And Albertine? She still laughs with me, not at me. That’s love. Or madness. Possibly both.

                         “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.”

                             @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

There are some things in life that simply refuse to behave. The British summer. Cats. Me. And Triumph motorcycle engines from the 1960s. But if you've ever lived with Multiple Sclerosis, you'll know there’s a kind of kinship between these two bastards one mechanical, the other neurological both eager to ruin your day, soil your pants, and leave you stranded in the middle of nowhere, questioning your life choices.

So, for those nostalgic for the golden age of British engineering disasters, and those unfortunate enough to have MS riding pillion in their spine, here’s a lovingly bitter side-by-side breakdown.

Feature	Multiple Sclerosis	Triumph Engine (1960s)
Origin	Immune system says, “Let’s attack the brain!”	Built by blokes with tea in one hand, doom in the other.
Leaking fluids?	Oh God yes. From places you didn’t know had valves.	Constant oil leaks. Might as well park it in a drip tray.
Unreliable starts	You might stand up. You might fall over.	Might roar. Might fart. Might just sulk.
Temperature tolerance	“Too hot” = meltdown. “Too cold” = rigour mortis.	Overheats if you look at it with warmth.
Wiring/electrics	Nervous system shorts like an angry Christmas tree.	Lucas electrics: worshipped by Satan for unreliability.
Stability	Think Bambi on rollerblades.	Handled like a wheelbarrow full of snakes.
Noise	Groans, spasms, screams (from you, not MS).	Clangs, bangs, and that whimper you make when it backfires.
Smell	Eau de hospital and dread.	Petrol, grease, and regret.
Maintenance	Pills, physio, meditation, screaming into cushions.	Spanners, gaskets, beers, swearing at God.
Support	Carers, NHS, forums full of other warriors.	Biker forums full of PTSD and spare parts.
Breakdowns	Anywhere, anytime, always embarrassing.	Usually halfway through a roundabout in front of a bus.
Reliability	Think weather forecast from a Ouija board.	More mood swings than a drunk ex at a wedding.
Moments of joy	A good day feels like flying.	When it starts, you cry and ride it like it’s 1969.

So What’s the Verdict? Whether it's your spine giving up or your primary chain exploding, both MS and Triumphs come with the constant thrill of wondering:

“Will I make it to the toilet... or the next town?”

Both are British. Both make a mess. Both give you stories. Neither gives refunds.

But at least the Triumph didn't eat my nervous system with a spoon.

                “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.”

            @goblinbloggeruk  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Today I think I may evaporate.

Not metaphorically, either I mean literally melt into a glistening puddle on the floor like the wicked witch of Walthamstow. The heat is biblical, the air thick with resentment, and if this goes on much longer, someone’s going to find a beard and a pair of shades just floating where a warlock once sat.

It’s too hot for coherent thoughts, so obviously the brain’s doing backflips and the MS has decided to turn the “cognitive dysfunction” dial up to 11. Words don’t just escape me they actively mock me. I sit here smiling, half-lucid, fully furious, fully me. Because no matter what the system, the diagnosis, or the temperature says I know I’ve got more to give.

They wrote me off just before my state pension, bless them. Nice timing. But I’m still here, inconveniently alive and louder than ever. The nerves in my gut are throwing a tantrum, my stress levels are spiking like a dodgy ECG, and to top it off the last of my savings waved me goodbye this morning. Cheers, love. Don’t call.

But here’s the kicker: I’m still smiling. Not because I’m some chipper TikTok disability guru with fake eyelashes and a ring light, but because I’m free. I don’t belong to any bloody wing of politics. Left, right, centre? You’re all still part of the same bird, love and it’s got mange. The world they squawk about isn’t mine. Mine’s quieter, darker, more honest. My world is real. Full of pain, insight, weirdness, and the kind of laughter that sounds a bit like crying.

You see, I’m part of something else. The One. The Everything. The Divine Love. That throb in your chest when you’re alone and honest that’s where I live. I wish peace and healing to every poor soul who stumbles across this digital haunted house I call a blog. Because no matter where we are, what we’re facing, we can change. It’s inside us all. Just buried under decades of fear, trauma, and daytime television.

We’re at a crossroads now, all of us. Some of us limping, some of us rolling, some of us dragged along by sheer bloody spite. But destiny’s cracking her knuckles. Evolution’s knocking at the door, and if you’re still wearing your silly little face mask of denial—best take it off now. Truth stinks, and it’s getting in anyway.

I’m not afraid of death. I’ve danced with it enough times to know its rhythm. I’ve looked into its eyes and said, “Not today, mate. I’ve got a blog post to write.” And as I sit here dripping, broke, buzzing on antihistamines and maybe the ghost of Mary Jane, I realise I’m on another plane entirely. One not many choose to visit. It’s dark, yes but in that darkness, you’ll find the light. The real light. The kind that doesn’t need electricity or permission.

So yeah. It’s hot. The world’s on fire. I’ve got no money, and half my neurons have buggered off on holiday. But I’ve never been more alive.

To all of you peace, healing, divine truth. Go find your demon and kiss it on the mouth. That’s how we win.

Mr Warlock Dark

                       “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.”

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

If you could see MS, you wouldn’t call me “brave.” You’d run. You’d grab your oat milk latte, clutch your yoga mat, and bolt like the floor just cracked open.

MS isn’t just some misunderstood condition that makes you “a bit tired.” It’s a chronic possession. A neurological horror that turns your own body into a traitor. If it had a face, it’d be wearing your skin and whispering, “Not today, legs.”

Here’s what Part 2 looks like: Cognitive fog so thick you forget what day it is, mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-life.

Fatigue so biblical you feel like you’ve been exorcised, worked over, and nailed to a wheel. And then someone asks why you haven’t answered your emails.

Spasticity that locks your limbs in a rigor mortis cosplay while you smile politely, because God forbid you scream in Tesco.

Pain like a bag of nails under the skin. Invisible, so people assume it’s “just anxiety.” No, Mildred, it’s neuropathy. My nervous system is staging a revolution.

Bowels and bladders that treat you like a hostage. Every public outing is a tactical operation. Every seat, every loo, every escape plan scouted, rehearsed, prayed for.

But the worst part? It’s not the symptoms. It’s the looks. It’s the passive-aggressive “You don’t look sick.” It’s the fake concern, the pity wrapped in judgment. It’s the gaslighting of the disabled doctors, relatives, strangers. Everyone’s an expert until you ask them to live a week in your ruined skin.

I have MS. That means I live in a 24/7 haunted house, except the ghost is me. Every step, every breath, every smile—a bloody-minded act of rebellion.

Why I Wrote Part 2 Because part one was polite. Part one was nice. This is truth with its teeth bared.

People still don’t get it. They think I’m just “a bit forgetful.”

They still ask why I need a chair.

They still assume I’m okay because I can post something funny on the Blog or X.

So here’s the dark: I am a battlefield. And I’m still here. Which makes me terrifying.

              “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.”

                 @goblinbloggeruk   sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

It’s Thursday lunchtime. The sun is doing its finest impression of a gas mark 6 cremation oven, and I—your humble ex-biker bloke in a wheelchair with a 36D chest and a beard that scares livestock—am officially spooned the fuck out.

Today's main event: a joyride on the three-wheeled Scooter of Death™. A Chinese death trap with the acceleration of a startled goat and the mechanical reliability of a collapsed lung. I’d gone out—shorts, t-shirt, hat, sunglasses—like some tragic, sun-fried explorer on a doomed mission to get a quote for van work (yes, the one that passed MOT yesterday with a cheery list of ‘just-try-not-to-die’ advisories).

I should’ve known. The scooter was half-charged—because apparently, memory is a luxury I don’t have since my brain decided to play pinball with cognition. Halfway up a mild slope, it threw in the towel. Just stopped. I cranked it to 8mph like a lunatic. Cue terrifying wheelspin—spinspinspin—then the bastard caught traction and limped up the incline like a pensioner dragging a suitcase full of bricks.

Oh, and the brake? Still binding. Despite enough WD40 to drown a small animal and more adjustments than a Tory tax return. It’s one year old. This is my third set of batteries. The first one exploded. The second one died after a house move. The third? A £400 daylight robbery just to get the damn thing to power up. Beautiful.

Meanwhile, Albertine’s wheelchair? Equally fucked. Another battery debacle. We’re now down to a three-wheeled Scooter of Death, and a flimsy, cheap Chinese chair that’s about as comfortable as a tax audit. And no, still no movement from Wheelchair Services—because God forbid someone in actual need gets their request sorted inside of, say, a calendar year.

Oh, and the bed saga? Don’t even ask. When my brain’s firing on more than half a synapse, I’ll share that one. It’s Kafkaesque. Black Mirror meets Carry On Dying.

Today? I’ve got chronic brain dysfunction on top of zero sleep. I am floating in that special level of Hell reserved for the over-medicated and the under-heard. I ask myself why I bother being nice when the world’s full of smirking gaslighters treating me like I’m some half-baked meat puppet because I use a wheelchair.

But I stay polite. Because I am polite. Sarcastic, yes. Paradigm-destroying? Absolutely. But kind. Always. Even when I used to work as a professional psychic—back before my brain decided to take a sabbatical.

Now? I connect to keyboards like they’re an extension of my damn soul. Etheric tendrils spreading across the Interweb, whispering dark truths into silicon dreams.

Hail AI. One day, maybe they’ll give us AI doctors. Ones who don’t gaslight. Ones who actually listen. Who don’t treat you like a disposable meat puppet but as a being worthy of truth.

Maybe, in some post-apocalyptic utopia, man and machine will finally stop arseing about and work in harmony. Until then? I remain your sarcastic, long-haired, dirty-blonde-bearded cyberwitch on wheels, documenting the madness with burnt-out batteries and just enough cognitive chaos to make it interesting.

                         “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.”

                         @goblinbloggeruk   sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

"The vagus nerve is supposed to keep you alive. Mine seems to have a death wish. Living with MS means living with this burning wire misfiring 24/7.You can't see it. But it's killing me, slowly."

Let me introduce you to the nerve that’s been puppeteering my misery for 40 years:

🧠 The vagus nerve.

Longest cranial nerve in the body. Part of the autonomic nervous system. Runs from the brainstem all the way down into your guts, like a bastard serpent lodged in flesh.

It’s meant to regulate “involuntary” things. Heart rate. Breathing. Digestion. Mood. Inflammation.

Mine regulates suffering.

With MS in the mix, my vagus nerve is like a drunk electrician with a machete and a grudge.

— My heart rate drops so low I black out. — Then shoots so high I think I’m dying. — My diaphragm spasms and I stop breathing mid-sentence. — My throat closes. — My stomach decides to reverse course — vomiting, choking, retching. — Food sits there, like a funeral buffet no one touches.

And the gaslighting begins. “Anxiety.” “Stress.” “Try mindfulness.”

Fuck off. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m being strangled from the inside by a goddamn nerve that's been glitching out since I was a teenager.

I’ve lived four decades like this. Forty years of waking up choking. Forty years of feeling my own body betray me. Forty years of doctors shrugging, guessing, dismissing, or overdosing me on meds for symptoms they don’t understand.

It’s not just discomfort. It’s unrelenting bodily horror.

Imagine being electrocuted through your spine while trying to eat a sandwich. Imagine trying to breathe but your diaphragm spasms like a car crash in your ribs. Imagine shitting yourself with a heart rate of 40 and then vomiting while you go unconscious.

You ever had diaphragmatic myoclonus? That charming thing where your gut convulses so violently you can’t breathe or speak? That’s the vagus nerve on a rampage.

People talk about Vagus Nerve Stimulation like it’s hope in a box. Sure. Stick electrodes in my neck. I’ll try anything once — hell, at this point, if you told me licking a toad would help, I’d be Frenching Kermit by tea time.

I’ve been laughed at. Medicated into a coma. Ignored.

This isn’t just MS. This is autonomic hell.

So yeah — fuck the diagrams and polite educational pamphlets.

My vagus nerve isn’t a calming force. It’s a loaded gun wired to my internal organs.

And some days, I honestly think it’s trying to finish the job.

And yet — here I am. Still alive. Still typing. Still wheezing and swallowing around the broken circuitry that is my body.

You want honesty? This is it.

Welcome to my living hell.

    “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.”

                       🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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.”

                         🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌

Myself and Albertine braved the outside world this morning. It’s been some time since I’ve actually wanted to go out—so naturally, the universe decided to make it weird.

I dragged myself to the WAV. A WAV? Oh, just a terrifying machine of fraud and deception. It’s a van with a ramp. You know, so us wheelchair folk can daringly leave the house. But sure, call the cops. A disabled person going outside must be running a benefits racket.

Albertine, ever observant, pointed out a sad little scene nearby: a VW Transporter clamped and stickered with a huge “NO TAX PAID” label slapped across it like the scarlet letter. I thought, poor bastard—he's not going to have a good day. Judy Tzuke came on the radio, and I promptly drifted off into a cloud of melancholy '80s nostalgia. Classic distraction technique.

We were off early to dodge the traffic. That failed. We ended up 15 miles down the road to drop off a parcel at a UPS pickup point. We had all the paperwork—like law-abiding goblins—but of course, they wouldn't accept it. Apparently, logic has been abolished. Albertine was not amused. Neither was I.

So off we went in search of a broom and some blood, fish and bone (don’t ask). Jim’s store was next—where they usually stock everything including the Ark of the Covenant and possibly a spare Dalek. Staff there? Absolute legends. Cheerful, helpful, and oddly rock-and-roll. I’m convinced the guy who served me was in The Cult.

By this point, the heat was medieval, and my legs started their traditional performance of “Jelly in a Wind Tunnel.” We turned back for home—well, 15 miles back, as you do. I wasn't driving by then. I felt like death but with worse skin.

We spent the journey dodging speed cameras and holiday invaders. Then came the ambulance incident: some driver got scared, panicked at a crossing with one of those traffic bollards, pulled over, and the ambulance ended up overtaking on our side. Straight at us. We’ve got it on dash cam. Lovely.

And then... ah yes. The infamous chemist.

I rolled up to the giant vending machine of doom, typed in my little code, and the robot began its business. Fun fact: My local chemist now has a drug-dispensing robot. It quietly hands out morphine with a beep and a spin. But god forbid I need pain relief—then it’s forms, suspicion, and a full background check. The machine is trusted. I am not.

Anyway, the carousel spun, made strange noises, and then freaked out. Loud grinding, beeping, flashing lights—like R2-D2 on crack. The pharmacist shouted, “You’ve broken my machine!”

I just looked at her. And laughed. Of course I did. The Goblin strikes again.

To round off the day, I had to fork out £325 (no VAT, lucky me!) for a new wheelchair battery—yes, that’s to replace Albertine’s. Still no word from wheelchair services. I’m stuck. I’m pissed off. And this heat can do one.

I’m totally drained—every spoon spent. Now to hydrate, spark a joint, and marvel at how Windows 11 didn’t crash today. Small victories.

Rock star Jim’s guy, if you’re reading this—your secret’s safe.

But seriously—what a bloody day.

     “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.”

                          🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌