How the drink and drama saga began...then...

Beforemath-How the drink and drama saga started…

There I was in my doctor’s surgery. The blood pressure was ok, how was I keeping? Well actually, Doc, I’m feeling very low, I’m not sleeping and I’m drinking far too much. I just can’t seem to get a grip on things. Can’t seem to climb back up the hole I’ve fallen down into like Alice in Wonderland... Foolish of me to mention the “Drink” word to a teetotaller General Practitioner who is a one woman “Stop Them All Drinking” Campaign. She makes AA look like party central…Anyone, in her view, who drank more than the stipulated maximum units per week was descending the slippery slope to moral turpitude and residence in the nearest gutter. Is there a Weight Watchers for drinkers? I asked. Yes, sez she, it’s called AA. And before I could say knife I was out the door clutching a prescription for anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills and the ‘phone number of a counselling service.

I filled the prescription. Took it home. Opened the packet of sleeping pills and read through the possible side effects. They ranged from the merely embarrassing (diarrhoea) to the terrifying (hallucinations). In between came allergic reactions, nausea, weight gain, rashes and - I stopped reading. I’d need to take an anti-anxiety tab if I was going to read any further about the anti-anxiety meds. I tossed the tabs into the kitchen press beside the herbs and spices I don’t use either. Unless they’ve been eaten by partying mice seeking an illicit thrill, they’ll be there yet. Out of date. Or maybe drugs improve with age.

I digress. So - back I went to the doc a few weeks later. “Have you given up the alcohol?” “No Doctor I haven’t. I still don’t feel right. Ok,   I’ll see the counsellor you recommended this week.”  Two months later I rang the doorbell of the stone building. Sat in the foyer. There was a sign on the wall that read “Every day is a new beginning”. Beside it hung a garish painting of a fried egg which on closer inspection turned out to be a sunrise.  Along came my appointed counsellor to bring me to his room. As he led me along the corridor, more aphorisms – the Serenity Prayer – and the coup-de-grace; a plaque stating that this centre for the treatment of alcohol and other addictions had been opened by the Minister for Health in June two thousand and splash.. Dear God. That cute hoor of a doctor had me in rehab…

 Some nights I risked half a sleeping tablet, or if I had to be up early drank my coca with accompanying Xanax biscuit. I happened to mention the name of the sleepers to a friend who works in the Department of Justice, aka “The Courts”… I was floored when she told me that the anti-anxiety meds I had were very highly addictive and that the sleeping tabs were even more addictive plus – they were the drug of choice of addicts and fetched the highest price on the black market! That’s great, I said, I can sell them outside your court room and make a few bob- damned if I’m going to take them. The irony of it is not lost to me; Doctor Temperance in her wisdom had sent me to this place while at the same time prescribing the two most addictive drugs in the legal pharmacopeia…

So I talked to the counsellor whom I was convinced was an ex-priest although of course I couldn’t ask. Talked about this, that and the other, how I felt, how much I drank, blah blah blah. Then unexpectedly, the killer blow. I never saw it coming. He asked a very intimate question about my relationship. Blind sided, from nowhere the tears spouted; I shook with the sobs. Finally the truth forced itself to appear.  There was a large elephant in the room. And it was wearing a wedding ring.

Still racked with sobs as I was leaving, the counsellor told me to take it easy. Could I go home? No I couldn’t. I had to go to work. So that’s what I did. I went to work and tried to stem the tears at my desk. Fruitlessly.

The Domestic Goddess does Christmas....

The Domestic Goddess does Christmas…

I have no idea what happened. I followed the recipe although as I don’t possess weighing scales I had to do a bit of guesswork with the quantities. Beat the eggs milk and sugar together, folded in the sifted flour, sprinkled in the handful of raisins, handful of  sultanas and two packets of cherries (because I love sticky red cherries in a fruit cake),  bashed it all round in a big saucepan as I don’t seem to possess a mixing bowl either.…  Lots of whiskey was consumed by me and the cake which meant we were both well moisturized. Into the tin with the mixture, into the oven, time to relax in front of the fire with the remains of the whiskey and the Westminster Choir singing Christmas carols. Lovely.

Anyway to cut a long story lengthways, when the cake came out it had risen to a height of   approximately one inch, despite the weight of ingredients in it. It had the density of a Black Hole. All it needed was an event horizon.  So what, I said to myself. There’s good stuff in it.  I’ll ice it anyway.

So I plastered the rich fruity pancake with apricot jam. Then I rolled out the ready-pack of marzipan using a glass since there didn’t seem to be a rolling pin available. The cupboard was devoid of icing sugar as well so I used ordinary sugar- well it’s white; surely the only difference must be the granular density?

After draping the lovely yellow sweet stuff over the cake, I had to do a tricky bit of cutting and pasting- well it’s very awkward trying to fit a covering over a round cake. The marzipan kept falling off the sides of the cake; it just wouldn’t please me by sticking to the bloody apricot jam. I was beginning to get annoyed – in the end I hammered the bloody stuff into the cake with the back of a steel spoon.

Next; the white icing!  (Never be fobbed off with Dundee cake and the like; if someone offers you Christmas cake, it must have marzipan aka almond paste, white icing and be adorned with  at least one of the following; a fir tree, a reindeer or a Santa. Otherwise it’s just plain ordinary fruit cake.)

I followed the instructions to mix the contents of the packet with water and then spread it over the cake with a flat knife. Well, it sorted of poured over the cake actually. Very messy stuff. Very runny. Job finished, I left it on the kitchen counter to set, and went back to the Westminster Choirboys and the whiskey. Baking in a hot kitchen is thirsty work.

Half an hour later, back into the kitchen ready for the final touches; planting the fir tree, the Santa, the eight little reindeer and the sleigh full of toys onto the pristine whiteness…

A winter wonderland awaited me, but not the one I expected… The icing had flowed down over the cake all right. It had continued flowing down over the cake plate, the worktop and the floor.  Icicles of royal icing hung like stalactites from the worktop. I wouldn’t mind, but it STILL hadn’t set.

In the end I used a breadknife to prise the cake plate away from the worktop. The imploded cake supernova was transferred to the waiting plastic container. I stuck my little figurines into the top with all the force of a mountaineer abseiling down a crevasse, and hoped for the best.

I was back with the sofa, the whiskey and the choirboys when a thought struck me; maybe I’d better sample it. Just in case….

What can I say. It tasted as good as it looked.

Compliments of the season, if not compliments to the cook….

Discomfort Zone...

Discomfort Zone

Right. Back to the self-improvement. Disciple. Focus.

I removed self-help book #11 from its spot holding up the offside leg of the bedside table. 3 deep breaths, Centre yourself. Read and absorb.

Task 1# Move out of your comfort zone. Think of something that appeals to you, that you might dream of but which you’d never actually attempt – and do it.

Ok. I like fun and laughter – and company. I love comedy. I admire people who can make other people laugh. What would bring me right out of my comfort zone- stand up comedy? Right. That’s what I need to do.

What have I got to lose? Face, that’s what. A lot of it if I fall flat on it. Stilll- people say my stories are funny. Why not try to perform them? Yes why not. If it works, it’ll be great. If it doesn’t well I'll have learned something. That I’m not that funny. Suppose I freeze….No I couldn’t do it. Yes I could try it. Re-write some of my stories for performance? Work out a little comedy routine? Yes. No. Maybe.

THE ANNUAL DOGS DINNER

I’m talking to a human dynamo, a go-getter, someone who’s not afraid to express opinions/do things/be out there. I confide my desire to step out of my box, have a go at it, how afraid I’m am of making a fool of myself. Go for it, she says. You’ll regret it if you don’t try…