Dory.

The Irish one has decided to start growing potatoes, on our kitchen windowsill.

I paused there so that the full horror of what I am telling you can sink in.

The man has ultimately thought about it long and hard, and has evidently come to the conclusion that growing potatoes, in an already crammed two bedroom flat in the middle of industrial Hell Manchester, is a sensible and normal thing to do.

And it’s not only potatoes.

It’s tomatoes too.

I, once again, am idealizing suicide.

Although the two events seemed to kick-start around the same time, I am almost sure they are not related.

Almost.

‘What in the hell is this on the windowsill?’

The windowsill, by the way, was the only surface in this godforsaken flat of Doom* that hadn’t already been taken up by some form of clutter.

(*If you are a potential buyer then I don’t mean any of this stuff I am saying by the way, it really is an upcoming area with great potential, filled with lovely people who only carry bricks because it looks cool,  and only look menacing because they are tired. Also this Apartment is genuinely in an ideal location for a single and semi blind person about town, who doesn’t mind the odd bit of Cancer, from the tiny industrial estate which really is further away than it smells, and also a small family who don’t tend to use their windowsills to START A FARM!)

My windowsill was glorious.

Half a meter of shiny white, varnished wood that on the one sunny day of the year would shine and glint, occasionally reminding me of sunsets in the Caribbean when I worked on the ships, of a life spent growing up in Spain free of the doldrums of this existence and occasionally in my darker moments, it would remind me of wood worm.

And then I would want to smash it to smithereens.

Because, seriously how can the very thought of a worm that eats wood just not freak you out?

It cannot be natural.

Does the worm go hard?

And if not?

HOW COME?

It is EATING WOOD!

“It’s Potatoes! Addy and I are starting a mini allotment! Isn’t it a great idea!’

I had been at work 4 hours.

This is how long it took  for an indoor allotment to be created in my kitchen.

Can you imagine what would happen if I left them to their own devices for longer than this?

Doodle would be sharing his bed with chickens, that is what would happen.

We are only one step away from chickens!

And I have a phobia of EGGS!

Anyway.

Are you bored with listening to me go on about my illness yet?

Blah blah blah, I want to hang myself, or suffocate myself, or maybe tie bricks to my feet and go for a swim in the Quays, blah blah blah… change the record.

I am bored of talking about it, but even more tired of feeling this way, of shuffling my dusty feet around and around in circles seemingly making absolutely no progress further than the occasional bout of euphoria, usually only caused by accidentally taking too much medication or perhaps spotting that Selfridges stock a new Marc Jacobs handbag.

I am sinking here, again.

I am so bored of sinking.

Of being.

So What the hell is he thinking?

Potatoes?

Is he trying to push me over the edge?

Our flat is tiny and already has four heartbeats crammed in to it.

8 if you count the Guppy fish we inherited from the neighbor who randomly moved to china in the middle of the night.

(*Seriously, LOVELY area.)

Do fish even have heartbeats?

Wouldn’t a heartbeat in something so tiny put them off their stroke?

Annoy them?

I am not going to be as predictable as to regale you with how I feel I can relate to those fish if I stare at them long enough, endlessly swimming around their prison, stuck, being able to see what life is like on the other side of the glass but never being able to reach it, with no hope, completely reliant on a small pair of bum smelling, 2 year old hands to provide their happiness, their sustenance.

But I will be honest.

Sometimes I think they may be communicating with me.

Boc Boc Boc Bo BOC BOC, basically means; ‘Kill us now you miserable bitch, or at the very least shave your damn legs and get off the Sofa.

(Boc Boc Boc is how fish talk. I am also aware chickens talk like this. DO you see a pattern emerging  here? BECAUSE I DO!)

But I can’t.

I have no energy left.

And the energy I do have I am certainly not going to waste on getting up off the sofa and shaving.

And now?

The Irish one is growing potatoes on the windowsill.

And most of my time is spent trying not to take an overdose.

Although the two may not be related, they definitely kicked off around the same time.

Oh.

And also, rather significantly, he recently told me he would never even consider moving to Spain.

And that,

May just be a Game changer.

Because if I don’t even have a hope of ever going home?

Never getting out of this fish tank?

Then really,

What is the point?

All I wanted was a tiny particle of hope.

The thought of one day going home, of heading back to everything i know? Well, as unrealistic as it may have been, it kept me going when things got very dark.

It was hope.

But now he is happily growing potatoes on the Windowsill,

And I don’t feel so lucky that I have something so precious to me, that he makes saying goodbye feel so much harder, than being forced to stay.

Even if his hands do smell of Bum.

So for now,

I will Just Keep Swimming and pray I don’t come home to poultry.

Boc Boc.

Advertisements

5 Comments on “Dory.

  1. The Welsh One told me a while ago that Spain was off the table, I don’t believe him though. I honestly think that at some point they’ll come round

  2. Spain is always a possibility chick, do not cross it off your list. Please find another glimmer of hope, you’re too loved and too special to not be in this world.

  3. Last night I watched a show on TV where the mother dies of heart failure and leaves behind a husband and daughter to pick up the pieces. I saw them fall apart but yet the idea of suicide is such a wonderful end in my head. Then, an hour later, I was watching something else where the main girl tried to slit her wrists and had the scars to prove it. Does the second show cancel out the first or vice versa? Either way, I know how you feel. I really do. I wish I didn’t. I’m ready for the end also.

  4. You’re missing the hidden plus side of this.

    My Dad was obsessed with growing potatoes. Various versions and all. Every time one of us brought a boyfriend \ girlfriend home he would insist on showing them his egg trays full of sprouting spuds whilst the poor boy \ girl looked at us in horror. They never lasted long. Keep that in mind for 15 years time when Addy brings home a shocker of a girlfriend…

Ah go on go on go on - reply?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

whocareswhatithinkanyway

Reviews, news and immaterial opinions...

CHOL PALAI

Tales of Travel

Mr Oliver.

Gaming, Music & Movies

biffandkate

parenting anxiety panic love laughter

Madre se aprende

Porque nadie nació sabiendo

A Box of Fluffies

The fluffy and not so fluffy of mummyhood: Memoirs and musings

Victorian Mini

Adventures in Modeling

feeding my intolerant child

Overcoming the challenges of food intolerance

The Tipsy Runner

One step at a time.......

Mum Muddling Through

Mum with more questions than answers

madchesh

The ravings of a Gay man with a personality disorder and HIV. I'm a catch!

Pets & Mental Health

Life, Mental Health, Anxiety, Depression, Health, Family, Knitting, Crochet, oh and pets! Lots of Pets! <3

Not Another Mum and baby group

A place for mums to get together for support and socialising

meandmegirl

Me & Me Girl (MG) on a mission to change the world, one bit at a time...

Days in Bed

Written By A Mother WIth Chronic Illness

scar

where three roads meet, there she is standing

Dad Without A Map

Unwrapping parenthood one nappy at a time

Weight Watchers Vegetarian

Vegetarian and vegan recipes and ideas for following Weight Watchers UK

improperly forward

A WORLD OF BEAUTIFUL CONTRADICTIONS

Sarsm's Blog

Quest for humour in my existence

Theplumbum's Blog

Stuff and me

julius22193

keep going

Be Like Water

Music, Film and Life

A Cornish Mum

Cornwall, Lifestyle, Parenting, Type 1 Diabetes Blog

Dear Mummy Blog

The travellings of Baby Isabella

Big Red Carpet Nursing

Fun & Progress!

Bipolarparent's Blog

Bipolar, Parenting, social services involvement but mostly me

Right from the Start

Play, Early Education and more...

HonieMummy Blog

The ramblings & goings on of the HonieHouse, HonieKitchen & HonieLikes

Tales from inside

Our family life

Oscar Relentos

Welcome to my catharsis

VAGABOND CITY

A digital space feat. poetry, art, nonfiction, interviews, and reviews by marginalized creators.

ScouseDad

Ey Ey Ey Calm Down!!!

Long Distance Daughter

Support on the journey of caring for aging parents

Doodlemum

a day in the life of my sketchbook...

A Mum on a Mission

ONE MUM'S BLOG OF HOW HER WORLD GOES ROUND!

Nothing But Words & Wine

Often Wine Sodden, always Emotional musings of a single Mummy sinking under the housework.

Mum on the brink

Parenting, travel and technology... and more

Living otherwise

another view on how we make it up

A Write Relief... (for PND)

A thirty-something mum's journey through postnatal depression... and beyond!

Typecast

Just another WordPress.com weblog

%d bloggers like this: