MS fatigue

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 ✨🧌

Today’s spoon count? Absolutely fuck all.

I woke up, blinked twice, and that used up three spoons I didn’t have. Got dressed? Minus five spoons. Made herbal tea? Minus ten spoons. Drank the herbal tea while contemplating the futility of existence? Surprisingly only minus two spoons.

By midday I was down to minus one hundred spoons, but hey, who’s counting? Me. I’m counting. Because if I don’t count them, my body will – usually with a dramatic collapse somewhere inconvenient, like Tesco’s freezer aisle, next to the frozen peas.

So here I am, writing this with negative spoons, like some overdraft I’ll never pay off, drifting through the day with my trademark goblin biker glare that says: “If you ask me to smile, I’ll eat your soul.”

But yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking.

P.S. What’s a Spoonie?

A “spoonie” is someone living with a chronic illness or disability who uses the Spoon Theory to explain daily life. Spoons = units of energy. Every task uses spoons, and when you’re out, that’s it – game over for the day. It’s a way to explain invisible exhaustion to those blissfully unaware of it.

             “  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 ✨🧌