10

April 16, 2012

10 days ’till hand in

8 days ’till binders.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I started counting sheep. Little fluffy lambs jumping over a gate. I got to 640 which is, I think, the highest I’ve ever counted in one sitting. Achievements a-plenty here in Wonderland, I tell you. After 640 the sheep stopped jumping over a gate and began to mill about in that way sheep do until I couldn’t tell which ones I’d counted and which ones I hadn’t. I guess that’s why sheep have splodges of paint on them. Anyroad, there were a shit load of sheep in my head before I finally fell asleep.

It’s no wonder I can’t sleep. On the one hand I feel tired to my bones. Like that feeling you get when you’re sickening for something and your legs ache like bastards from walking up a flight of stairs. On the other hand I feel constantly like I’ve had about 15 cups of coffee.

I am currently wading through my proofreaders’ corrections and comments. Obviously it’s reassuring that they have picked up on them before the examiners scrutinise it all but when I re-read some of my 3am typos and sentences all mangled like a game of twister I wonder how I was ever allowed to enrol on a PhD in the first place.

An additional hindrance is that Audrey has taken to howling loudly (yes, howling, not meowing) unless I let her sit on a) my proofread chapters b) my laptop or c) my shoulders. However awkward it is to write with a cat on your shoulders, it’s less detrimental than the first two options.

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Enter title here

February 10, 2012

As the morning tips into the afternoon I have, as yet, nothing to report other than that my cat has a bout of cystitis and now hates me for dragging her to the vet in the slushy snow. Other than giving me the cold shoulder, she is in fine spirits now but I think it will take me a little longer to recover from the snarling Alsatian with a taste for frightened cat.

I hate going to the vet. It’s distressing for everyone involved. Plus, the vets’ waiting rooms of south east london are full of some of the noisiest and smelliest animals you can imagine. Thankfully, their pets are a delight *BA BOOM!* (thank you, watch me as I take a little bow).

Anyway, I am now back in the warmth of my study with an instant coffee (damned economy drive – more on my church mouse-ness another day) and a sulky cat, I am turning my attention to the thesis abstract I need to send off today in order to register my ‘intention to submit’ the actual thesis at some point in the (hopefully) not too distant future. As the thesis is mostly written, this shouldn’t take too long to write a one-page abstract, but I also have to submit my final, actual, definite title for the thesis and this is causing me to chew my lower lip into a bloody pulp of indecision.

I am crap at titles. Absolutely crap. I can’t even choose a blog title without making a chamomile tea and drawing up a list of pros and cons. As you may have noticed from our long-standing relationship, Internet, brevity is not my thing.  And titles need to be short, snappy and accurate. Ideally, they should have an element of wit, and yet failed attempts at this end up sounding like a Daily Mail headline and, as I’m sure you’ll agree, that would be a “Pun-damental” flaw in my plan to convince my examiners I am worthy of a title of my own.

Fortunately perhaps for me, academic studies tend to make full and frequent use of the colon as a way of marrying catchy but pointless title with boring but descriptive subtitle. Something like:

Alluringly Alliterative Accolades: the boring story of some lesser-known public figure 1847-1888

or

The Rise and Fall of Someone or Something: the thesis sounds more interesting if presented as a rise and fall even if nobody cares about the rise and fall therein.

or

Bold but Irrelevant Statement: How I intend to make my fave quote relevant to actual content of thesis.

It’s not the bracket (my puntuating weapon of choice) but it’ll just have to do. Or, sometimes, the colon is replaced by the question mark as follows…

Rhetorical Question? It may be rhetorical and out of context but I’m going to answer it anyway.

 

Ok, now I’ve had a bit of a practice, I’m going to try to fit my thesis topic into one of the above templates. Wish me luck!

 

Well knock me down with a feather, Internet. I done good.

 

I got up at 4.30am this morning. That is 4.30 A.M. That is 4.30 A.M. IN THE MORNING! This in itself is quite an achievement for me.* I said I was going to get up at 5.30 and I got up at 4.30. That means I started the day with my time-management balance a whole hour in credit!

 

And then, because the rest of the world was asleep, and because the Internet held no interest (I’ve already read all the good bits), I sat down and did some work. Just like that! No procrastinating, no distractions. I am still in shock. I just keep running through it in my head, trying to recall each stage of the process in the hope that I can recreate it. It went something like this:

 

1. Open computer

2. Quit Firefox

3. Quit Email

4. Open new word document.

5. Start writing.

6. Finish writing with 500 precious little words in the PhD bank – kerCHING!

 

Examining this process more closely, I see where it usually breaks down:

 

[Note: What follows here is an analysis of the above process. Because that’s what I specialise in  – totally pointless analysis of mostly pointless writing. Just watch me in action]

 

Step 1, it could be argued, seldom presents difficulty. Indeed, there exists empirical evidence to support this theory. However, steps 2 and 3 are likely to prove more problematic, particularly where the subject engages in a process of reflexive looping in which the legitimate pursuit of knowledge inevitably gives rise to a decrease in productivity. Entirely optional, step 4 can often be beneficial, particularly where the subject might suffer epistemological crises in relation to previous attempts at expression. Nevertheless, the real problem here rests not, as one might assume, with the successful execution of step 5, but in fact with the slippage resulting from what is represented here as a seamless causal relation between step 5 and 6. It would appear, in fact, that there exists several hundred sub-steps between these parent sets, sub-steps not anticipated by the model above. Such sub-steps may include but are by no means limited to: examination of eyebrows to see if they need plucking; preparation of multiple cups of tea; investigation of back of the wardrobe; assorted activities associated with animal husbandry. Etc etc etc

 

What total bollocks. Sometimes I really do hate myself.

 

 

 

*Granted this is probably owing to me going to bed at the unusual hour of 8pm last night. And there’s probably only so much sleep one person can have in one night. But so what? I’m awarding myself a bonus cat treat from the cupboard under the microwave.

Haiku for ADHD

November 17, 2011

Hey hey hey, Internet.

Today finds me in a reasonable mood, despite productivity being low and distractibility being exceedingly high. So far today the only things I have finished are a whole packet of polos and the last of the loo roll (never did get round to buying any, despite repeatedly noting to self that it has been running low). Hopefully the laxative effect they warn you about only applies to the sugar-free variety. Otherwise I could be in trouble.

Anyway, because I am running out of day in which to achieve anything remotely useful, I thought it would be good for me to start a blog post that I could complete quickly and without becoming distracted. I therefore decided, Internet, that I would impose some restrictions upon myself. For, example, a 17 syllable length restriction, a three-minute time restriction, and a strict prohibition on the curly bracket, my Achilles heel of appropriate punctuation. For this reason I am introducing what may well be the beginning of a regular series of posts (in the name of brevity): the ADHD Haiku (really, the inventor of the Haiku should be given an ADHD genius award. Or summat).

So here it is:

ADHD HAIKU number 1*

Angry driver BEEPS:

The man is green and has been

For some time. Sorry.

 

Edit: You Americans and Canadians have green men on the traffic lights, yes? If not, apologies, and google is your friend.

*(where the fuck is the hash key on a Mac pls??)

Q: How many cups of tea…

November 14, 2011

does it take an ADHDer to write a PhD?

A: Not sure. Am on cup 5 and still counting.

Cup 1: Faff about.

Cup 2: Check blog stats. Notice that somebody searched for “restaurant bus” in russian. That’s автобус ресторан for anyone wondering.

Cup 3: Send some self-pitying texts about how much work I have to do. Modify plan.

Cup 4: Faff about. Check washing machine for napping cats. Put washing on. Realise once it’s too late that I forgot to add washing powder. I am reminded of the time I made biscuits and forgot to include the flour. But my childhood baking catastrophes are a tale that deserve a post of their own someday.

Cup 5: Open Word document upon which I have 800 of the 1500 words I need. Have some kind of minor brain melt and somehow accidentally disapperate and end up on WordPress relating the whole sorry tale.

Gahhh (or as oooshiny might say ‘shitpissfuckandbuggerybollocks’ – hi shiny!), I really need to sort myself out. Need to send work to Supervisor P by tonight latest. Need to get started now. Right this minute…

 

 

 

 

…I better just nip and pop the kettle on.

 

Warning: this post is so full of burning hatred and fury that it could spontaneously combust at any moment.

Internet, I am angry. Very, very angry.

Why? This advert.

What the fuckety-fuck is this? I get more irate about this every time I see or hear it. And it seems to be bliddy everywhere at the moment (as you know, I recently started a new job and my office-mate has the radio on all day (ADHD post on this very topic is currently under construction (in fact it was going to be today’s post until Littlewoods’ gangrenous little advert took over my brain and irritation started pumping round my body where my blood should be)))* so I have heard this advert in its radio form at ten minute intervals for two consecutive days. And because I’m new to that office and want to make a good impression I can neither ask her to turn it off or sit there with blu-tac in my ears in an attempt to block out the noise. Honestly though, I would rather listen to foxes fuck all night than sit through another 41 seconds of this shit.

I mean, surely you can see why I find it so odious? Well, let me count the ways (in reverse order of their offensiveness):

  • Obviously, it’s far too early for Christmas adverts etc etc etc blah blah blah. Even I’m bored about people complaining about this every year so I’m just going to mention it for the sake of comprehensive analysis of the situation and then leave it there.
  • The tune is annoying and therefore sticks in your head and you’re on the tube and it’s in your head, and you’re having a bath and it’s in your head, and you’re waiting at the bar and it’s still there —‘my lovely, lovely mother’ — in your head and GAH!!
  • The children are extremely annoying. It’s not their fault. Probably. But, nevertheless, whether they’re just acting or really are that annoying, their ‘cuteness’ annoys me. I have no time for cutsey kids. Ick.
  • It reinforces gender stereotypes in a multitude of ways, from the gender-specific presents and costumes, to the clear assumption that only mothers bother buying presents. Fuck off, Littlewoods.

Now that leaves us with a whole bundle of reasons that it’s annoying, all of which would probably fit nice and snugly under a generalised heading such as: Objection to the Commercialisation of Christmas. But it’s not even just that. It’s a more complex repulsion than that, and if it were only that then it would be just as predictable an objection as point number one and I probably wouldn’t mention this either.  Christmas is commercial, it just is. I’m not saying it should be but it just is. And we’re used to it. We’re used to the adverts selling us products by carefully gift-wrapping them in sentimentality and festive nostalgia.

BUT, and I think this is what really gets me about this. There’s no pretence! None! Littlewoods do not even have enough shame to PRETEND that they’re not trying to boost sales in the midst of financial crisis by preying on the Christmas spirit of families who are already financing their whole lives on credit and probably ‘spreading the cost, interest free’ for everything wherever possible; buy now, pay later for life, not just for Christmas. This lack of shame is evidenced by the way they break the golden rule of Christmas advertising (where children are featured, all gifts usually come from Santa. (You could argue that at least Littlewoods are finally giving parents the credit for those Xboxes and Fidgets (what the fuck is a fidget anyway?) rather than Santa being falsely attributed  for his generosity every year but I am not feeling kindly towards Littlewoods right now so no, I will not grant them any defence at all.)  Littlewoods are just cutting Santa out of the equation completely).** You see, Littlewoods have no need for Santa. Santa is for adverts that don’t have a very clear message. And the message for all the mums out there is this: YOUR CHILDREN WILL LOVE YOU MORE IF YOU BUY THEM EXPENSIVE PRESENTS. YOU CAN AND SHOULD BUY THEIR LOVE. IF YOU DON’T BUY AN XBOX FOR YOUR FIVE YEAR OLD, THEN YOU ARE A SHIT MOTHER AND YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE ANY TACKY LITTLEWOODS JEWELLERY IN PENANCE FOR YOUR SHITNESS. AND CHILDREN? IF YOU CELEBRATE AND MIMIC YOUR MOTHER’S MATERIALISTIC ATTITUDE SHE WILL LOOK UPON YOU WITH PRIDE. gaahhhhh!

Apart from anything else, I feel angered beyond belief that Littlewoods think the general public is so stupid that they will find this acceptable. NO. Glancing at the comments left under the YouTube video, I am pleased to see that apart from a few ‘Awww, how cute’ morons, most people share my view that this is an odious, offensive shitfest of fuckwittery.

But what am I going to do about it, apart from pour out my scorn and repulsion to you, dear Internet? Well, if this is Christmas then I want no part of it. I would just boycott Littlewoods but, honestly, who shops there anyway? Nope, my anger at this advert goes way beyond Littlewank.com. I am boycotting Christmas full stop unless a) my anger abates significantly (which will only happen if I can successfully eradicate any possibility of accidentally being subjected to this advert in the next seven weeks) or b) ….nope, can’t think of another way out. That’s it then. I am going to have to raid the stationary cupboard for a shed-load of blu-tac.

I am going to leave the final word to the bloody wonderful Tom Lehrer who, even after over fifty years, still captures the ‘true spirit’ of Christmas in a delightfully amusing song which I would like to propose as an antidote to anybody who, like me, is suffering from injuries inflicted by Littlewoods this year…

* I just had to close three sets of brackets there, Internet. Three! I really need to work on my brackets compulsion. Nobody should have this many parenthetical remarks. In fact, if remarks are so tangential that they warrant being embedded three brackets deep then they probably need culling at the draft stage.

** That there, Internet, was another three sets of brackets? What is wrong with me? It’s like the part of my brain responsible for punctuation is on speed.

You know those times when you feel you are just about coping? When you feel you’re trapped in a box which is slowly filling with water and you’re pressing your head against the top of that box, desperately trying to delay the moment when the water level passes your shoulders, then your chin, then your mouth, and you know within seconds it’s going to be lapping at your nostrils?

Right. Well that’s how I feel about now. Except the water, which I am using here as a metaphor for, y’know, stuff, life stuff (you got that, right?) is in actual fact currently the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back. I think I’ve mixed those metaphors beyond all recognition and, indeed, beyond all rhetorical use. In plain English then: Everything was all getting a bit much but I was kind of coping with it until my downstairs neighbour knocked on the door to tell me that my boiler was leaking so much that it had broken their boiler and was in the process of flooding the whole street. And sure enough, when I looked out of the window, it appeared that the Thames had made a small detour past my window. Fuuuuuk

So now I am spending my Sunday night trying to arrange for emergency plumbers to come and fix the flat downstairs, and trying to get the useless fuckers who fucked the fucking boiler in the first place to come and fucking fix the fuckwittery that was their attempt to fix the fucking thing in the first place. (I heard expletives lower stress levels. I’m giving it a go.) Meanwhile, although there is clearly a surplus of water in my opening metaphor, the flat downstairs, and the street below, there sure as fuck isn’t any in my flat. No. That had to be turned off to stem the deluge. So now I can’t wash up (ok, probs wouldn’t have done that for another few days anyway, but tis hardly the point), can’t have a shower, and more worryingly, can’t use the loo (on the bright side, I have no drinking water so that is a problem with its own built-in solution). Seriously though. On the toilet problem. I might have to consider using the cat-litter tray. Since one of my cats seems happy to use my bed as a loo, they can hardly complain if I share their tray (I have been forced to do this on one occasion in the past but that is a very different story and one which I fear would detract from the general tone of GAH which I am currently trying to express). Or maybe I should just cut out the middle-man and take a piss on the bed myself.

I know that in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really a massive problem. It means sharing my flat with people who call me ‘love’ and ‘my dear’ for several days while they try to cover their ineptitude by patronising me with unsolicited life-advice, but it’s not really the end of the world. It’s just that I feel I am only ever just keeping the pressure of anxiety and panic at managable levels and this kind of needless, pointless, frustrating obstacle sends that pressure gauge shooting up into the red, and big read flashing letters reading PANIC, PANIC start blinking behind my eyes, and I cope with it in the only way I can release some of that pressure: I start to cry. And then I’m crying, not just because the boiler is fucked but because I have a PhD to write, and a new job to start, and because the water bill just came in and I don’t know how I’m going to pay it, and because I feel guilty because I don’t call my grandma enough, and because my grandma is 93 years old and all her friends died like twenty years ago, and because my brother feels low and there’s nothing I can do about it, and because I feel guilty and confused about some very confusing stuff at the moment, and because I owe about ten billion people emails…..everything just unravels. And then I feel so useless and pathetic because I really don’t have it that bad, and I know other people have ACTUAL problems to cope with and the truth is, I just don’t deal with normal day-to-day stresses very well. I need to work on that. Chamomile tea, yoga, breathing exercises, maybe some good drugs wouldn’t go amiss.  Whatever…I need to sort it the fuck out because you know what? Sometimes boilers break down. Sometimes things go wrong. And one day I’m going to have something really bad to deal with and then I’ll bloody wish it was only a case of ringing an emergency plumber.

Anyway, in an effort to convince myself that it’s not all bad and that the world is not an evil place populated only by cowboy plumbers, I am going to list some achievements/good things to come out of the last week:

1) I sent some work to my supervisor and she sent it back and apparently it’s not as crap as I thought.

2) I am planning to take my first proper holiday in almost eleven years. There will be sun, sea, endangered species, hopefully some vegan cuisine, but most of all there will be no PhD. Or any studing of any kind. Roll on April.

3) Last night, I went to watch the fireworks with people I love. It was beautiful and so were they.

Well, Internet. Thanks for reading. I feel a bit better now. That’s why I love blogging. I tell myself what’s what and give myself a bit of a talking to. I start writing in a frenzy of anger/panic/anxiety/frustration and then feel a whole lot better for getting everything off my chest (or small flat tits, as the case may be). Ok, signing off now. If you need me, I’ll be standing on the traffic island in the middle of my street, playing poo sticks with the body parts of chauvenist plumbers.

Till the morrow, fair Internet…

 

November 2, 2011

Bah ha ha ha.

Sometimes I like to amuse myself procrastinate by looking back at some of the search terms people used to find this blog. Some of them are funny, some are completely nonsensical and some of them are downright disturbing ( I am talking about YOU here, person who searched for ” the voices in my head are telling me to kill you “)

Anyway, I thought I’d share some of them with you because, clearly, I have nothing else I’m supposed to be doing (ahemm), and although I’m almost certain that you probably do have something better to do, you’re obviously procrastinating too because you’re here. So it’s a win-win situation for us both.

So without further ado, dear Internet, let me present to you….

The Fucked Up Search Terms Awards 2011

There are several awards I would like to make here. I have divided them in to categories. Because that also seemed like a good way to spend an afternoon. First up…

1. Nominees for most fucked up cat search…. (clearly it is the case that 99.9% of the Internet is about cats, or produced by cats. There are feckin hundreds of these but the shortlist is presented below)

how to tell if your cat is plotting to kill you

sneering cat

cat boxing

laughing cat

yoga cats

sneaky cats

cats in cups

marmite and cat

smug cat

clumsy cat

exhausted cat

no shit sherlock cat

cats in clothes

half naked cats

keyboard cat       (yay!!! If you’re not familiar with keyboard cat yet then go look – go on)

cats computer

cat exercise

devouring cat sex

my cat pants

strangling cat     (wtf? Srsly Internet, sort it out)

sex cats

fucky cats

And the winner is……Devouring Cat Sex!!!  This was a difficult decision but I found that the ambiguity appealed to me. Is the searcher looking for footage of cat sex which s/he can avidly devour? Or is s/he looking for cat sex in which the participants devour each other? No idea but it’s a winner.

Ok, next up….

2) Nominees for search terms that this blog Is Definitely NOT able to help you with:

de-cluttering chaos in your home     (ha ha ha, sorry anonymous searcher, can’t help you there)

adult adhd i am fucking lost somebody help

small flat tits    (move along, move along, nothing to see here *cough*)

thing to do inorder to forget scary things   (Who asks the Internet this? Really?)

chip van with two fit girls (wtf..this is very specific. A real shot in the dark that, surely?)

terminal procrastination   (Love this. Both the description itself and the irony inherent in the search itself)

my tea’s gone cold and i’m wondering why? (hahahahahhaha)

messy advice     (I can’t advise you on this. It just comes naturally. Unless you’re looking for a cure? lemme know when you find it)

reminders to bathe (erm…..)

And the winner is……… my tea’s gone cold and i’m wondering why?!!!! Well, it just had to be really, didn’t it?

…Finally, I want to make a Special Epic Search Term award to what has to be the longest search term ever, threatening to bring down the whole of the Internet under the weight of its effort to be SO VERY EXTREMELY THOROUGH:

” emotional flu blog ignoring your feelings pretending something hasn’t happened overeating excessive drinking of alcohol exercising compulsively any type of compulsive disorder always keeping busy so you don’t have the time to think about anything even closely related to ‘emotions’ keeping conversations superficial burying angry emotions or masking them blogspot ”

Yes, people, that is one search term. And although I can’t help this searcher, I would like to put my mirth aside for a second and say that actually, my heart breaks a little bit at the desperation enclosed within those speech marks. I am so sorry you feel that way. I hope you found some better advice than I can offer, somewhere in some dusty corner of google, and that things start to look up for you. If not, google “fucky cats” instead. Everyone else is. Apparently.

Good morning, Internet.

It’s a chilly autumnal morning here in Wonderland. I have had an uncharacteristic (and entirely involuntary) early start to the day, having been woken up by the postman who delivered my Halloween costume. I forgot to take off my make-up last night and had been in a very deep sleep so the poor guy could be forgiven for his barely concealed surprise when his knock was answered by a creature for whom the donning of a scary Halloween costume could only represent an improvement. A creature who resembled this chap:

Anyway, I digress. After a shaky start, I am determined to remain on-topic today without hesitation, repetition or deviation. I need to talk to you about my decision to go back on the Ritalin before the rapidly loosening ball of wool that is my life unravels completely. I’m feeling completely incapable of getting things done and it’s always the PhD and my blood pressure that suffers most.

For example: I have so much to do today, and I am desperately trying not to panic. I am having people over to the flat tonight for a halloween gathering. Ideally, my itinary for the day would go something like this:

1) Blog about my ADHD meds (or lack thereof).
2) Despite lack of said meds, nevertheless, produce 3 or 4 hours of quality writing towards my PhD, thus sedating the little monster of PhD anxiety so that he has a good long nap.

3) Clean flat from top to bottom without breaking off at any point to explore the Internet or check that the dietary needs of chinchillas have not changed since the last time I conducted this research. Pay particular attention to the removal of cat fur from surfaces that guests are likely to want to sit on.

3.i) Decorate flat with cheap Halloween tat purchased from poundshop.

3.ii) Do so without sustaining injury from climbing on furniture.

3.iii) Dispose of all packaging and rubbish associated with cheap tat. Do not
leave on living room floor.

4) Go to Sainsburys and purchase food, alcohol and suitably proportioned pumpkin.

5) Carve pumpkin (may require sudden and spontaneous increase of artistic ability)

5.i) Do so without sustaining injury from big sharp knife.

5.ii) Should injury occur, at least have presence of mind to collect blood into
suitable container for incorpration into Halloween costume.

6) Shower, apply scary make-up to face, put on scary costume and wig.

7) Admit guests to flat without any indication of preparation hell. Probs attempt smile if poss but if not, pass lack of smile off as costume-appropriate expression.

8)  Drink Halloween punch until I pass out and care not that my flat enjoyed approx 1 hr of tidiness before being littered with the debris of celebration and intoxication, debris that I will inevitably be too hungover to dispose of.

Oh crap. How is that the time?? Despite the carefully delineated 8 point plan above, I am going to have to jettison Step 1 and postpone my post on ADHD meds. Again. FFS.

I have started using this morning pages site, an online version of the morning pages exercise from The Artist’s Way. It’s not a blog; it’s private. I like the idea of it. I like the way it automatically counts your words as you write, I like the way it produces a cloud of words that you use most often, and i like the way that it congratulates you when you reach 750 words. I am generally in love with any website that enables my narcissistic tendencies. But it’s more than that. I like the idea of writing 750 words a day   most days with some regularity, words that I have no intention of including in my thesis, that I won’t be viva’d on, and that I have no need to footnote, reference or edit. I enjoy producing non-academic writing, it’s good for me. But I also find that when I’m writing regularly, the quality of my academic writing improves, the words are more readily to hand, and I seem to be able to keep up with my own thoughts and I can focus for longer. I declare, therefore, that although this might sound like a brand new method of procrastination, it is absolutely definitely not. I am going to use it to tell myself to myself and see what I say.

Of course, it probably won’t last. Most likely, I will spend several days obsessively logging in, writing my words, poring over my stats, and congratulating myself on a new regimen of self-discipline. Then it will go the way of this blog, untouched, unkempt, and neglected for months on end. Until the next time I have a deadline, or have something else that urgently needs my attention, at which point, writing 750 words to myself every day will become the most important thing in the world again. I am so predictable. I bore myself. Part of this is the ADHD. People with ADHD are like magpies: they can’t resist the shiny sparkly, newness of concepts, hobbies, causes, and sometimes people. Distracted from all else, this new thing becomes everything. It is a prize to be valued, a project to begin, to nurture, be passionate about. But before long, the shine of that new object dulls, the attraction ebbs, and inevitably something else catches the eye, the imagination, the attention. People with ADHD often live among the debris of forgotten relics of past hobbies. Everyday they have to pass the half-painted living room wall, or the pile of fliers they volunteered to hand out. Every now and again they get a text or an email from somebody who they really meant to keep in touch with but whose last phone call they never got round to returning.

But you know what? I’m just not going to give myself a hard time about it anymore. I have spent so much time and wasted so much energy in hating this about myself and trying to change it. I’m not a bad person. But I’m disorganised, easily distracted, and a little bit fickle. That’s the way it is. Abandoning something, like this blog, used to mean that I’d once again failed to ‘stick at something’ (This was a common theme of my childhood – my inability to stick at things.I failed to stick at ballet, the recorder, the guitar, judo, gymnastics and countless other things. In the end, I ended up ‘sticking’ at things I hated, just to prove a point. Eight years of bloody piano lessons and I still can’t play). Well, I don’t have to these days. I may have Adult ADHD but you know what the good bit about that is? The ADULT bit. I’m nearly 29 years old so if I want to obsess about something for a few weeks, buy all the accessories to go along with said obsession, and then kick it to the kerb, well I fucking can. I might come back to it later, I might not. Doesn’t matter.

I have noticed that I come back to this blog when I don’t have the time to, when I really need to be doing something else. But I’m not going to give myself a hard time about that either. Because I’ve also noticed that there are reasons I come back to it from time to time. It’s not just about procrastination. It’s also about knowing myself, speaking back to myself, giving myself a good talking to. It’s there when I need it. And I like that. I just wish I hadn’t called it ‘I Won’t Forget A Single Day’ – perhaps ‘Here Lies An Account of Some Days Since 2008’ would have been setting a more realistic target.