HeatwaveHell

Well, it seems the annual hayfever apocalypse is upon us. Hooray. Yes, I’m now on three antihistamines a day (or however one spells it—frankly, the packaging is too blurry through the eye-itch haze to tell). My eyes currently feel like they’ve been rubbed with Sahara sand and rage. They itch. They burn. They are deeply offended.

As if that weren’t spiritually enlightening enough, apparently we’re also entering a solar storm spiral of doom. Some sort of sunspot nonsense for the next two days. Space people says "all hell could break loose." I say, bring it—what’s one more intergalactic inconvenience when your nervous system is already hosting a personal light show?

Speaking of which—hello, tinnitus, old friend. Oh, and welcome back, numbness on the left side. My hand’s gone stupid again, as if it’s auditioning for a B-movie about haunted limbs. Meanwhile, I continue to dribble down aloe drinks like some sort of spiritual juicing monk, in the vague hope it helps something. Anything.

Apparently Monday brings better weather. Brilliant! Time to roll out the Wheelchair of Death™ and hunt down some "fresh air" (or at least a breeze not laced with pollen and doom). Provided it’s not raining. Or boiling. Or both.

Today was a weird one. I actually managed to get loads done on this blog. Going forward, I’ll be writing more about strange bits of my past, and of course, the winding, faltering path of my MS journey—as it meanders toward the inevitable: death. Or as I prefer to call it, a return to the Source, the Creator, the Great Mystery.

As above, so below. As below, so above. The Emerald Tablet said it best. We are stardust, spirit, and sarcasm walking each other home. Through numb hands and dusty eyeballs. Still, I smile. Because blogging makes me weirdly happy. It helps give meaning to all that’s been lost.And so, along this road—I tread.

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.”

Well, the thunderstorm graced us with its presence this afternoon —cracked the sky like a B-movie god and passed over with all the drama of a diva refusing to perform. Barely a splash of rain, just a loud announcement that the heat would continue to cook us slowly like Sunday roasts forgotten in an oven from 1973.

We remain in Air Con Defcon Mode 1, curtains drawn like we're shielding secrets from MI5. The conservatory? Off-limits. It’s currently housing temperatures that only beings from another dimension—or possibly lizards wearing SPF 9000—could survive in. Over 100 degrees. That’s not weather, that’s a war crime.

Open the internal door and the resulting thermal whoosh might melt my magic wand—not a euphemism—just the last shred of my sanity.

Still, silver linings. I stumbled across a chilled flask of aloe vera juice, the one with the juicy bits like nature’s answer to bubble tea. Apparently, aloe’s benefits include:

Hydration (desperately needed)

Soothing inflammation (goodbye, burning skin)

Aiding digestion (because heat messes with everything)

Spiritual realignment with the moon goddess (or so the dodgy websites claim)

I’m here for all of it.

That is, assuming it makes it into my mouth. Currently sporting numb lips and a tongue like a rubber chicken, so drinking is a game of Russian roulette between hydration and bib-level dribble. Spoiler: it was both. Stay classy.

Magnet Fishing: Dreaming Canal Adventures from the Comfort of My Deathtrap Wheelchair On a brighter note, I’ve found purpose. Magnet fishing. Not in practice—my 3-wheeled chariot of doom (read: deathtrap wheelchair) isn’t canal-ready—but in spirit. I now live vicariously through Wim’s Treasure Adventures on YouTube with Wim and the Amsterdam crew.

They’re absolute legends. If you’ve never seen someone fish a rusty bike out of a canal while laughing like a maniac, you haven’t lived. Seriously—funny, wholesome, and weirdly profound at times. Like Bob Ross meets scrap metal.

Brain Fog Incoming — Time for the Magical Green Fix Now the brain fog has rolled in like a disappointed foghorn, and it’s time for my medicinal marijuana and THC-CBD oil combo. A touch of the cosmic green before I melt into my chair and pretend this is all a really weird fever dream.

Happy Solstice, my crispy friends. Stay chilled—both metaphorically and literally.

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.”

My Living Hell

One man’s journey through chronic illness, broken systems, and uncooperative furniture — with swearing, sarcasm, and an unhealthy relationship with the freezer section.

Today, I nearly married the fridge. 26 degrees. Feels like 46. Conservatory? A balmy 102°F — or as we call it here in Britain, hell’s greenhouse. I’ve got sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. The fridge freezer doors are wide open and I’m contemplating whether it’s physically possible to live in the salad drawer.

Breathing feels like trying to inhale through a wet sock. My throat’s gone numb, hands tingling, lips buzzing like I’ve been snogging a faulty toaster. Blood pressure’s fine, which is amazing considering I feel like a Victorian widow with the vapours. There’s that heaviness in the air too — that classic “a storm is coming” feeling. Which I love, obviously. Thunderstorms are my favourite. There's something deeply comforting about watching the sky lose its temper when you're already halfway there yourself.

MS and heat are mortal enemies. I say enemies, but it’s more like they’re in a toxic relationship and I’m the child stuck in the middle. My body treats summer like a personal insult. I melt, I twitch, and at some point I lose the ability to speak without sounding like a cursed Victorian ghost whispering through a tin can.

Then there’s the wheelchair situation. My old chair went to that great battery charger in the sky, so I’m currently using a three-wheeled death trap that turns every trip to the shop into a scene from Wacky Races: Disability Edition. What I need is a Q100. What I have is a self-aware mobility device with a thirst for chaos. Honestly, it’s like trying to pilot a shopping trolley with a grudge.

Meanwhile, my fridge — bless it — is wheezing under the pressure, valiantly trying to keep my frozen peas solid while I slap a bag of veg on my forehead like it’s the world’s saddest spa day. Ice packs? Nah. I’m straight-up cuddling frozen chips now. Dignity left the building sometime around 11am.

Music's blasting — something mellow, dark and floaty. MDB. Morcheeba. That hazy, dreamlike soundtrack to heat-induced madness. I’m sipping Disprin like it’s vintage whisky and popping antihistamines like I’m playing pharmaceutical roulette. Every med I take gives me a new side effect, like it’s trying to outdo the MS in the 'who can ruin today more' competition.

Still. Back into the kitchen I go, seeking solace in the fridge’s loving embrace. If you don’t hear from me again, I’ve either passed out next to the frozen fish fingers or ascended to a higher plane of chilled existence.

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.”